


The Haunting of Harrington Hill

by hailsatanstyles



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Blood, Childhood Friends, Haunted Houses, M/M, Mental Instability, Orphans, PTSD, Suicide Attempt, Suspense, Urban Legends, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:59:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailsatanstyles/pseuds/hailsatanstyles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Childhood friends, Harry and Liam, find out that the Harrington Estate on the Moors holds more secrets than they could have ever imagined. In the face of unknown forces, they realise they might not live to tell the tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

For as long as the town of Hemlington has existed, the Harrington Estate has sat upon the Yorkshire Moors, nestled between sparse trees.  The air hangs heavy with the threat of rain even on the nicest of days, and the cracked marble steps leading up to the stained façade of the mansion have long since been slicked over by moss, tendrils of ivy tangling through the barred railings.  Spider web cracks shoot across the dingy glass of the Victorian round top windows, and the once presumably breathtaking stone of the walls have crumbled away into dust.    

 

Each generation has its own superstitions regarding the abandoned mansion; the stories swirl like the perpetual mist that hovers around the hill like a sickly halo.  Stories are woven through fear and gossip, and suddenly the house is larger than life, has swallowed countless lives, and left survivors shivering too hard to speak.

 

Legend has it the Harrington’s were the most influential outside of the Royal family.  Lord John Harrington had been the Lord Speaker of Parliament, his son, Peter, the heir to his position of power.  Though his wife, Lora, had the grace of a swan and his daughter, Susana, the beauty of a blooming rose, King George III kept a hateful eye on their family.  As the King worked to diminish the power of the Lords, John Harrington rallied the House of Lords against him, holding secret meetings in the servant quarters of his estate.  His fierce nature and belief in his fellow Lords failed him when he and his family were found slaughtered in different rooms of the sprawling mansion.  Lora had been decapitated in the conservatory, bloody shears discarded on the table next to her evening tea.  Peter was found impaled on the tusks of an elephant head, which was mounted on the wall of his father’s study.  The path from the powder room to the claw-footed tub had a trail of shattered porcelain and blood, breadcrumbs leading to Susana’s naked body, beaten and drowned in the lukewarm water.  The body of Lord John Harrington had been hanged by the neck in the foyer, dangling in the heart of the home as a warning to any other brave soul willing to defy the kingship.

 

-

 

Harry’s cautiously leaning over his desk to whisper at the shape of Liam’s flannel clad back.  “Lee.” Liam doesn’t flinch, but Harry’s lab partner is giving him a pointed look that screams, _why did I get paired up with this useless prat_.  Harry’s never been good at chemistry, or at paying attention, so fucking what.

 

“Lee.” He extends the vowel in a whine.  “I know you hear me.  C’mon buddy.  Turn around.”  Harry is nothing if not persistent.  He leans forward more to swat at his best friend’s back before he’s being pulled back roughly.

 

“Fucking Christ, Styles, your sleeve is on fire!”  Regina is shouting at him with flailing limbs, and fuck, yeah, he’s on fire. Harry dumbly stares at the quarter sleeve of his blue and white baseball shirt as flames lick up his arm.  He may be in shock though because it doesn’t hurt a bit until Liam is knocking over his stool and using his backpack to snuff out the flames.

 

Liam’s breathing heavy as he drops his backpack to the floor.  He’s giving Harry a patronizing glare with his warm brown eyes but Harry just grins at him.  Liam has a hero complex and Harry likes to feed into it every once in a while, letting him know he’s still useful (he jumped out of the oak tree in his yard when he was six because he wanted Liam to catch him).

 

“You okay?”  He asks, leaving out the, _you big idiot_.

 

Before Harry can answer him Professor Walden is stalking over to their lab station as fast as her tight pencil skirt will allow.  “Mister Styles, may I ask what on earth you’re doing?”

 

Harry just shrugs, dimple creasing his right cheek, “Needed to ask Liam a question.” He muses.     

 

“You can ask Mister Payne as many questions as you like on your way to the nurses office.  You’ll be serving detention with me Monday after school as well.”  Her young face is pinched in a way that makes her unattractive even though every straight male student has had at least one wet dream about her. 

 

Harry’s cradling his singed arm close to his body, grinning still, “It would be my pleasure, Miss. Walden.  Come along, Liam.” 

 

The halls are empty and Liam is stomping down the hall with tense shoulders.  “Hey, wait!”  Harry calls after him, tripping a bit to catch up until Liam turns around to face him.

 

“What did you need that was so important it couldn’t wait ten minutes until lab was over, Haz?”  Liam’s thick eyebrows are drawn down in annoyance.  “You could have seriously gotten hurt.”  He points out.         

 

Harry offers up his slightly mutilated arm and shirtsleeve, “Kind of bypassed the ‘could have’.”     

 

“Because you’re an idiot.”  Liam says without malice as he rubs a hand over his cropped hair.

 

“Yeah, yeah.”  Harry waves him off and begins to walk again.  Some burn cream would definitely do him a world of good right now.  “Anyway, what I was going to was, _it’s Friday_.”  He declares this with his slow drawl and Liam punches him in the shoulder so he whimpers.

  
“You set yourself on fire with a bunsen burner because it’s Friday? Are you fucking serious?” Liam hisses, pushing Harry into the open door to the nurse’s office.  The nurse, an elderly woman with the touch of an angel bustles out from behind her desk at the sight of them.  She tutts at Harry who is quietly cringing as she maneuvers him over towards the first aid kit, cleaning off his burns and applying cooling cream and bandages.

 

Liam hovers awkwardly in the corner until Harry’s smiling wide and giving the nurse a kiss on the cheek.  “Thanks Molly, feeling right as rain now.”  He says.

 

“Take care of him Mister Payne, this one’s a rascal.”  She calls with a friendly wink.

 

Harry nudges Liam’s shoulder with his nose and gives him a sly smile.  “Yeah, take care of me, Liam.” 

 

“Will do, Molly.”  Liam reassures the woman before leading Harry out into the crowded hallway.  The school day is finally over which means it’s finally the weekend.  Everyone is buzzing at the prospect of parties or anything else that takes their mind off of passing their A-levels. 

 

“You look stupid with one sleeve being quarter sleeve and the other being a muscle cut.” Liam deadpans, making his way through the throng of people into the student parking lot.

 

Harry doesn’t reply, just continues to cheerfully follow Liam to his older than old Nissan Altima.  Once Harry’s in one of his moods it’s hard to break him of it, Liam knows it better than anyone.  Harry can’t feel or think, he just goes and does without any mind for the consequences. 

 

“We’re going to Harrington Hill tonight.” He declares rather loudly trying to be heard over the radio.

 

“No.”  Liam says sternly, looking forward at the street light with a clenched jaw, waiting for it to turn green. 

 

He’d been thinking about this plan all of last night and Liam’s sensible and boring personality will not hold him back from the one exciting thing to do in this town besides going to a rave.

 

Harry turns down the radio and fixes Liam with a stare.  “Why?”  He pushes with a slight pout. 

 

“Be _cause_ ,” Liam starts.

 

“Oh god.”  Harry groans.  He knows he’s in for it now.

 

“For one, you’re always dragging me around to do horribly illegal things and I would like to not have a criminal record at the age of seventeen.”

 

“You’ll never be convicted, promise.”  Harry assures but Liam charges on.

 

“And also, Niall was the last person to go there with Keith and Carter, and when he came back he couldn’t even speak.  He hasn’t said a word since, and no one knows what happened to him, not even his friends who were there.”

 

“Bull shit.”  Harry crows as they turn into their neighborhood.

 

“Listen Haz, I don’t know what happened to him that night, but I am not going to let it happen to me, or worse, you.  So, no.  The answer is no.”  Liam uses his stern tone, the one Harry’s dad used to use on him when he was still around.  He pulls the car into Harry’s driveway and puts it in park.

 

Harry gingerly unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to Liam.  Sometimes the intensity of Harry’s eyes still takes Liam aback when the emerald of them shines when Harry gets the way he gets.  Liam shouldn’t be shocked anymore.  Harry has dragged him to the side of the road to hitchhike to Leeds, he’s train hopped, the wind whipping his curls as Harry howled at the night, and they’ve rolled for two days straight and ended up on the college football pitch naked; Liam shouldn’t be shocked.

 

“I’ll come get you at eleven.”  Harry says as he lets himself out of the car, backpack slung over his shoulder.  He disappears into his house and Liam wonders why he ever bothered fighting when he always lost anyway.   

 

-

 

Liam’s parents are sound asleep down the hall when a high beam of light streams through his bedroom window much like an alien invasion.  He glances out and sees Harry holding the giant police flashlight he nicked in sixth year.  Harry’s gesturing for Liam to come outside, and for a glorious two seconds Liam thinks he has the option of not accompanying him on this brilliantly dangerous excursion until he remembers last year, when Harry owed a lot of money to the wrong people and Harry sat on Liam for two hours begging for him to come with him to the negotiation spot, _Liam you have to protect me, it’s your job_.  It’s been his job since they were four years old and he’s not going to just call in sick now.

 

When he opens the front door Harry’s standing there with open arms, flashlight tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, Ghostbusters shirt pulled taught across his body (for some reason Harry never quite realized he’d grown so he trips around like a newborn giraffe with clothes that are always a few sizes too small).

 

“You are quite possibly the biggest dork I know.”  Liam laughs as he hugs Harry, careful of his bandaged arm.   

 

“If you’re referring to my amazing shirt, then you can stuff it.”  Harry says, getting into his car, Liam following behind. “We’re hunting ghosts, I’m going to wear my Ghostbusters shirt.  Now get comfortable, sweetheart we have a long drive ahead of us.”

 

Liam sighs, pulling the handle to recline the passenger seat.  He closes his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest comfortably; he could really go for a nice, quiet, movie night. “So how long will it take to get there?”  He murmurs over the quiet hum of the car’s engine.

 

Harry shrugs, “ ‘Bout 45 minutes.”

 

Liam contemplates sleeping until they get there, but the pure energy buzzing off of Harry is enough to keep him on edge.  It’s something he’s always fed off of.  Harry is as contagious as the plague when he wants to be.  The window is fogged over with their warm breath clashing against the cool night air that presses against the glass.  Liam traces his finger over it slowly, almost trance-like until his fingertip is moist and he’s staring at a triangle with an eye at the center that’s staring back at him.  He blinks and shakes his head before looking away.  He catches Harry glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

 

“Couldn’t just draw a heart or a smiley face like a normal person, eh Liam?”  Harry mocks.

 

Liam watches the streetlights cast long shadows across the dashboard of the car every few feet.  His skin is crawling and he can hardly smile, even for Harry.  “I can’t draw hearts.”  He says.

 

Harry heaves a sigh as they merge onto the straightaway that will take them to Yorkshire Moors, the sides of the road are barren as far as the eye can see.  “I’m sorry I dragged you out tonight.  I’m just feeling-” He cuts off and waves his hand around trying to will the right words to fruition.

 

“I just needed to do something that made me feel-” He stops again, but Liam can fill in the words Harry’s grasping for, _something that made you feel alive_.

 

“It’s okay Harry, we’ll have fun.”  Liam reassures. “I’m not mad at you, just a little tired.”

 

He can hear the rushed noise of relief come from Harry, but Liam can’t help the twisting feeling in his gut or the goose bumps that shoot across the plains of his skin as the condensation of the drawn eye drips down the window till it’s crying blood.  The only thing replaying in his head is Niall and how his easy smile hasn’t graced his face in months, or how his blue eyes simply stare out blankly, unseeing and weary.

 

-

 

When the moors finally come into view, the clock radio shows it’s nearing midnight.  Harry has the brights of his car on to cut through the thick autumn mist, headlights bobbing dizzyingly as they drive over the previous tire tracks frozen over in the mud leading up to Harrington Hill.  Liam’s trying not to be annoying but there’s a feeling in his gut that maybe this isn’t a good idea, that something bad is going to happen.  His legs feel weak and his palms are sweating, Liam’s not psychic but he knows when he should trust his instincts.

 

Harry puts the car in park next to a patch of small trees about a half a yard away from the house.  With a heavy, finalizing sigh, Liam undoes his seatbelt and gets out of the car, leaning over the hood to take in the wide expanse of darkness surrounding them.  No one would ever hear them scream, just like those five kids whose bodies were found littered across the Moors, strangled with their throats slit from ear to ear.  The looming figure of the estate solidifies the feeling of dread in him when it emerges through the mist, an ancient tomb of a lost family.  It so fully embodies the legends he’s heard since primary school on the playground, that a chill runs along Liam’s spine, making him roll his shoulders uncomfortably.   “Are you sure you want to do this, Haz?”  He asks, mouth dry with nerves.

 

Harry slams his door shut, earning an eerie echo through the night.  He fixes his flashlight beam on Liam’s face and Liam cowers away slightly, squinting at the silhouette of Harry with his hand up defensively; he fancies having his eyesight intact.

 

“We’re here already, therefore we’re not going anywhere but inside, Leeyum.”  Harry drawls out his name mockingly and turns on his heel, making his way up the hill, Liam tripping after him, trying to keep up.

 

At the foot of the stairs leading to the massive marble columns of the front entrance, Harry stands tall, autumn wind whipping his curls about his pale face that is illuminated halfway by the crescent moon hanging in the sky.  Harry looks to be on the precipice of something incredible, as if just being here on this soil, exploring an urban legend, will define him.  Liam has always admired him for his sense of adventure and how it fuels him the way a normal person is fueled by let’s say, food or sleep. He doesn’t dare disturb him as his wide green eyes pass over every inch of the crumbling stone walls and cascading ivy crawling down the balcony, twining around the cracked dingy marble.

 

“It’s so beautiful.”  Harry breathes in amazement.  It’s just like Harry to see the original beauty of something so seemingly decrepit and hollow.  Harry could see the best in anything or anyone.  It’s unsurprising that he can imagine the flickering flames of candles that would sit in the sill of the bay windows on each side of the mansion, or how the servants would open the dark mahogany double doors with a grand gesture when Lord Harrington arrived home from Parliament.  Harry could see it all, and it only intoxicated him more, pushing him to drink it all in.  Turning to Liam, mouth cracked open in a grin, “It’s now or never, Liam.”

 

The rubber of their sneakers slip and slide against the damp, mossy row of steps that lead up to the estate as they trot up them.  The beam of light from the flashlight cuts through the mist, illuminating the droplets of water and the elegant brass lion head doorknockers.  Once they’re close enough Harry reaches out and slams bottom mane of the lion against the wood, once, twice, three times, the sound of the knock vibrating through their bodies.  He looks back at Liam with raised eyebrows, impressed.

 

Liam’s far from impressed though. “The fuck, Haz?  Are you trying to wake the dead?”

 

“Oh come off it, Liam, it’s cool.”

 

“Yeah, let the whole world know we’re here, totally cool. How do you know there’s not a serial killer waiting inside for idiots like us to show up and that was his signal to hide and attack when we pass him?”

 

Harry pockets his flashlight and grabs Liam’s face with his hands, pressing his lips in a kiss to each cheek then to the tip of his nose, something he’s done to calm Liam down since they were kids.  “Lee, everything is going to be fine. Promise.”

 

The tension in Liam’s chest eases and he leans into Harry’s touch with closed eyes.  Harry’s lips are against his ear, “Just stay close to me, yeah?”

 

Liam let’s out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Yeah.”

 

Liam glances back to the moors, foreboding and daunting, eyeing the shape of Harry’s car, memorizing the distance between the front door and where it’s parked in the mud.  Harry gives him a pat on the back and turns back to the door, pushing at the handle with his whole weight until he stumbles in with a stilted gasp.

 

“Haz?”  He calls in a panicked voice, chasing after him.  Harry’s sprawled out on the threshold, face pressing into the musty oriental carpet that’s discolored and torn to bits. 

 

“I’m okay.”  Harry’s muffled words are barley audible, when Liam sees it.  His blood rushes loudly in his ears and his skin crawls uncomfortably.  The remains of a noose hanging from the rusted chandelier sways in the breeze that’s whipping through the foyer.  Liam’s eyes follow it like a pendulum back and forth until he feels like he’ll be sick.

 

“Oh fuck, that’s dismal.”  Harry comments, standing next to him, swatting the dust off his black jeans with a disgusted face.  “Think that’s the same one they used to hang Harrington?”  He muses. 

 

Liam swallows loudly, trying his best to tear his gaze away.  “No, no, I don’t think so.  I think it’s more recent.”

 

“You mean?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Harry clears his throat, “Right, well… I wanted to check out the conservatory first.  Heard the room looks the creepiest at night.”

 

“Okay.”  Liam replies, but he’s glued to the spot, still staring at the noose as if in a trance.  Harry curls his pinky finger with Liam’s and gives it a light tug.

 

“Don’t think about it.” Harry pulls Liam to the left of the grand staircase, through rooms with high ceilings that have gaping holes where the wood deteriorated and collapsed in a heap on the floor, where there are still touches of a family who was disturbed mid-routine even after so many years.  Liam takes it all in, interested yet fearful.  The house has the air of something alive, and he doesn’t know why he can feel that something’s wrong yet Harry can’t.  Harry approaches each room with the curiosity of a toddler discovering the world for the first time.  Liam feels Harry release his finger as he traipses through the parlor, being drawn to the piano that’s grey with dust, his hands automatically fiddle with the out of tune piano keys.

 

There’s a shout from somewhere deep inside the house and Liam whips around, breath hitching.  The hollow echo of a door slamming in the distance follows the voice.  Liam can’t breathe; he’s choking on the stale air that hangs like a toxic cloud.

 

Harry turns to him with a look of concern etched into his face, “Hey, you okay?”  He asks, and it’s so casual, the way he says it, that Liam wants to punch Harry in the face.

 

“Y-You didn’t hear that?”  He splutters, gesturing wildly at the doorway that leads back to the foyer.

 

Harry steps closer, eyebrows drawn in close.  “Hear what, Liam?”

 

“There-there was this voice and it yelled.  It yelled really loud.  I heard the door too, Haz.  The door closed.  We left it _open_.  We’re going to be trapped in here, tr-trapped with pentagrams spray painted on the fucking _walls_.”  He’s getting hysterical, but he can’t stop his heart from beating loudly in his ears, he needs to get the fuck out of here. 

 

Harry puts a hand on his shoulder, and lightly smacks him across the cheek with the other.  He looks deep into Liam’s eyes and rests a hand over his heart.  Harry can most definitely feel how hard it’s beating, like the flutter of a bird’s wings. “Liam, you with me?”  Liam nods his head numbly, eyes focused on the knobs in the wooden floor.  “It was just the wind.  You need to calm down.  You’re just working yourself up.”

 

Liam knows he didn’t make it up, he heard the words loud and clear.  He heard it so well it chilled him to the bone-

 

_Leave now or you’ll die._

“What if the house drives you mad?”  He asks, looking up at Harry with wide brown eyes.  Liam pushes past the lump in his throat.  “What if that person killed themselves because they couldn’t escape?”

 

-

 

The moonlight slants through the glass panels of the conservatory, casting the ruins of once luscious trees and flowers in a shower of silver.  The cathedral style stained glass of the vaulted ceiling cuts blood red across Harry’s pale face.  When he smiles, his features look positively wicked bathed in crimson.

 

“The architecture of this place is incredible.”  Harry says, spinning in a circle, looking up at the glass and how it towers over them, ivy crawling along the outside, leaves creating a shadow of small handprints.  Harry’s focused on the sharp, yet elegantly intricate pattern of the colorful panels, as he steps back, flailing desperately as he catches on something.  There’s a hole in the floor that seemingly goes on forever, where the earth evaporated from beneath it.

 

Liam grabs Harry by the neck of his shirt and tugs him to his chest quickly.  “Fuck Haz.”  He gasps into Harry’s curls.  “Pay attention, please.”

 

Harry looks at him with those impossibly crystalline green eyes, face as white as cream, hands curled into the front of Liam’s flannel.  “My hero, Liam Payne.”   

 

Something feels like it’s shifted and Liam’s positive the house is driving him mad, because he almost can’t fight the urge to connect their lips.  Maybe it’s something heat of the moment related, but the desire burns through him, desperate and chaotic.  He’s going mad.  He can feel his head spinning, dipping with confusion, hands trembling.  

 

Harry presses his lips to Liam’s without warning, pliant and warm, sighing once they find a rhythm.  Liam’s hands tangle in the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck and he gently scratches at his scalp, earning a shiver.  Harry pulls away first, lip tucked under his front teeth.    

 

“It’s okay, Harry.” He says softly against Harry’s lips, exchanging breaths between each other.

 

Harry blinks slowly, eyelashes sweeping against his cheeks.  “You felt it too?”  He asks.

 

“Yeah.”  Liam assures him, pressing his own plump lips to Harry’s again, frantic to know that Harry’s not going anywhere, to know they’re fine, that they’ll survive all of this madness.  Their tongues tangle and he drags small noises from the back of Harry’s throat as they stumble backwards into a forgotten tea table.      

 

“Shit.”  Harry laughs, short and breathless. “Oh, _shit_.”  He says with more conviction, all humor lost.

 

Liam looks down to where Harry’s focused and he gasps.  “That’s not-” he starts, “that _can’t be_.”

 

The table has a pair of rusted hedge shears discarded on it; dried blood splattered against what once was pure silver.  Next to the shears is a small potted plant, overflowing with vivid begonias, thriving and scarlet.

 

 “We’re not alone…” Liam says with a tremor in his voice.

 

“Do you know what kind of plant that is, Lee?”  Harry asks, now even he doesn’t sound calm.

 

“No.”

 

“Neither do I.”

 

“Do you think it means something?”

 

Harry nods his head silently.  “Let’s get out of here, I’m sufficiently freaked out.  Time to visit a new room.”

 

They don’t let go of each other.

 

-

 

The mood upstairs is different.  Liam doesn’t feel the overwhelming fear he’s grown accustomed to at the moment.  Harry’s back to being Harry, and Liam feels almost normal, even though things haven’t been necessarily _right_ since the drive here.  There’s been the perpetual chill knocking down each of his vertebrae, the carnal heat in his belly and he feels at war with himself.  But right now, he feels fine.  That’s what scares him the most.

 

Harry takes off down the corridor leaving him to squint into the distance, trying to make out the outline of his body.   “Harry stay close to me you prick. You have the bloody flashlight, remember?” Liam can’t help chastising Harry, especially when he catches up and sees him hanging from the rusty and half-broken chandelier in the hall, swinging his body back and forth like an acrobat.

 

“Get down from there before you break your neck.”  Liam says, swatting at Harry’s legs before he jumps down with a thump.  “I swear you were raised by wolves.”

 

Harry eyes him playfully and licks Liam’s cheek.  “I’m just your average teen wolf.” He says throwing his head back, howling for emphasis. “Keep moving forward, Liam.  I think we’re near the room with the elephant head.  That’s always been my favorite part of the legend.”  He begins walking away, yammering on about how painful it must have been to be impaled on tusks.  _The tusks of a fucking elephant, Liam. It’s just mad._ Liam’s half paying attention to Harry’s rasp because his heart has begun fluttering in his chest the way it did the night he went looking for Harry because he was late for their weekly Mortal Kombat competition, and Liam found him beaten and bloodied under the overpass.  It was a wrong place, wrong time scenario, but Liam had _known_ something was wrong.  It’s different from the other rooms, the panic spikes and raises each hair on the back of his neck.  

“King George must have had the biggest balls in all the land.”  Liam observes with a stressed laugh, trying to sound normal for Harry.  He’s freaked him out enough tonight, no need to add to it.

 

One second, Harry’s walking backwards, facing Liam, flashlight trained on him, his infectious laugh echoing through the hall, _Good one, Liam_ , floating and wrapping around Liam like a security blanket; the next, a shadow slinks out of the darkness, appearing like a bout of mist between them.  Liam freezes in place, a terrified shout caught in his throat.  He goes to move, run, _anything_ that would mean he’d be okay.  Harry calls out to him, his flashlight clattering to the wood floor, but the figure is approaching him,  “Harry, run!” The words are ripped from him, shockingly loud, made up of pure fear for not only for Harry, but for himself as well.  His gaze is focused on Harry who is rushing the figure just as stars burst behind his eyes in Van Gogh fashion; the world going black and deafeningly quite.

 

-

 

Liam crumples to the splintered wood floor in one swift motion and lies there unmoving.  Harry gapes at the silhouette of the man who attacked Liam and lets out a pathetic whimper as he moves slowly and carefully past the man, towards his friend, hand outstretched with the need to know he’s okay.  The sound keeps replaying in his mind, the dull thud followed by dead weight dropping.   _Thud, thud.  Thud, thud. Thud, thud._

Harry’s mind is going in thirty different directions and most of them center around the fact that this is all his fault.

 

He’s on his knees next to Liam, hands shaking his shoulders.  “Lee?”  He asks gently, voice wavering. “Liam, wake up.”  Harry can’t keep the desperate tone out of his voice.  He’s trembling and he feels cold all over, and he hardly wants to look up to see if the man is still there or not.  Chancing a glance, he sees that the man still has the baseball bat raised in the air, threateningly, and Harry tries not to focus on how the bat is stained red even in the dark of the hall.  The man is breathing unevenly, but the bat is being lowered and Harry is silently thanking the powers that be.

 

“ _Liam_.”  Harry’s growing more frantic by the second because Liam’s eyes still aren’t opening and they’re going to die in the moors in an abandoned mansion, and Harry deserves this, he really fucking does, but never Liam.  Liam’s too cautious, too sensible to even _be_ here.

 

“Fuck, is he-?” The guy rasps.  Harry senses the terror in his voice, and he sounds too young, too scared, to be a malicious killer.

 

Harry can faintly hear the wind howling through the lower floor of the mansion, whipping up the cobwebs, and he can hear the front door banging on its hinges, the echoes of something familiar ring through the estate, and before he knows it, a loud sob escapes him.  The sound is startling, and almost inhuman, and Harry can’t see anything outside of his best friend’s limp form and how the tears are blurring even that image.  “Liam?” He croaks past the tight ache in his throat, tears streaming down his blotchy cheeks.  The minutes pass by slow and torturous, hope slipping through Harry’s fingers like sand.  “Liam you have to wake up.  You’re supposed to protect _me_ remember? Liam, you’re supposed to protect _me_!”  He’s shouting and pounding his fists against the floor until he scares the boy with the bat into a corner.  The boy is speaking softly out loud, as if he’s speaking to someone, and he’s hitting himself repeatedly.

 

He gives up and rests his head against Liam’s chest, the softness of his flannel rubbing against Harry’s cheek.  “Please wake up.  I’ll take you home and I won’t drag you out when you don’t want to anymore, we’ll have Disney movie nights instead, and order takeaway, and drive to the beach at night because I know how you like the stars and the sound of the ocean.”  Harry can’t stop himself from stroking the softness of Liam’s hair, because it feels all too much like when they take naps together on Liam’s bed.  His hand grazes a spot that’s sticky and Harry gags at the realization that it’s blood; Liam’s bleeding.  Harry has Liam’s blood on his hands, and Liam’s bleeding an alarming amount. He focuses long enough to see Liam’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek, a sliver of the warm brown of his eyes showing.

 

“Louis! _Louis_ , where the fuck are you?”  There’s another voice, not the rasp of the attacker, someone different, but the boy is jumping up and wiping at his face, bat forgotten at his feet.

 

“ZAYN.” The boy, Louis, yells back.  “Help me, please.”  He begs loudly, his voice cracking.

 

Harry’s trying to think of a way to get out of here without being murdered, but he’s feeling more and more like a trapped animal by the second. 

 

“Haz?”  Liam croaks, eyes half open and pain etched into the crease between his eyebrows.  “Where are we?”

 

Harry shushes him quickly, pulling him up into a sitting position, as footsteps pound up the grand staircase towards them.  The shape of a long, sinewy body comes into view and skids to a halt in front of the three of them.  This new person has an intense gaze in the glow of his own flashlight and raven colored hair.  He surveys the scene, Harry on the floor holding Liam in his arms, the pool of blood where Liam collapsed, the baseball bat at the feet of the boy. 

 

He turns slowly to the other boy with a type of terrified anticipation. “Louis,” He coaxes gently, “what the fuck have you done?” He asks.

 

“They told me to do it.”  Louis squeaks.  “I’m so sorry, Zayn, oh god.”

 

Zayn turns to look at Harry, his face pinched, and Harry doesn’t understand what’s going on, starting with who these people are and who told this kid to attack them.

 

“I’m sorry for what happened to your friend.”  The dark haired boy says.  “You shouldn’t have come here, but I will help you.”

 

Harry let’s out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and hugs Liam tighter to his chest.  “Thank you.”

 

The boy wets his lips with his tongue before speaking.

 

“On one condition.”  

       

 


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a few triggers in this chapter so I figured I'd make a list.
> 
> TW: mental illness (PTSD/Schizophrenia), blood, death, physical abuse (hinted), burns/fire

There are all sorts of dependency in the world, ranging from the physical, like the tightness in your chest, or the tremble in your fingers when you need a cigarette, to the emotional, where your bones ache with the desire to be near someone you love.  Though these are all forces to be reckoned with, there is no dependent bond stronger than that born of tragedy.  It’s something that’s seared into your bones like a brand, except the brand is the event that changed your life forever, playing on repeat; a moving tattoo.  It’s looks something like that, and something like the name of the person who was there for you when it all went to hell. 

 

A tragic bond looks like flames licking at your skin till you’re positive you’re melting.  It tastes like smoke filling your lungs as you collapse to the floor before you can reach any of your family members.  It feels like arms underneath your back and thighs, carrying you out into the cool night air.

 

In the summer of 1999 there was a dry spell that is unmatched still to this day.  The grass was a parched mass of straw-yellow strands and the neighborhood dogs panted in the heat while children ran through sprinklers.

 

No one knows the details of August 7th, but it was the week a power outage struck the community.  The days stretched on, long and sweltering, and nothing appeased the growing madness that blackouts tend to breed. Louis had spent all day playing red rover with Zayn and his sisters until the apples of his cheeks turned a bright red under the rays of the sun, bringing out a small splattering of freckles.  He and Zayn shared ice pops from the ice cream man, and came up with theories as to where he got the ice cream when their own freezers were broken.   Their mothers watched them from lawn chairs, enamored by the energy of their rambunctious seven year olds, and how happy they could be even when the rest of the world was miserable.  Louis begged his mum to let Zayn sleep over until she relented to his pout that insisted he wouldn’t sleep unless Zayn was sharing the same air as him.

 

The dull roar of flames is impossible to forget once it’s heard in close proximity.  On August 7th, Zayn slept peacefully, curled in the armchair in the corner of Louis’ room.  He never minded Louis’ light snores that always followed a long day of playing.  If anything it eased him into a slumber better than a bedtime story.  It was comforting to know Louis was _right there_ if he needed him. 

 

The noise started as a crackle, fading into his mind like white noise, between dreams of running through an empty field.  Instead of insects buzzing through the tall grass, they cracked and exploded in midair, startling Zayn.  Then came the sound of a wail, high and keening, floating over the hill up to where Zayn sat watching the clouds pass quickly through the sky.  The sun’s rays were beating down on his skin with a fierce intensity he didn’t know existed when the rumble occurred.  It was low and persistent; humming underneath everything till he coughed into his fist, and coughed again, the palm of his hand coming away, coal black.  The sound only grew louder and the sun only got hotter, and Zayn jolted awake to find Louis’ blue room, basking in deep orange flames.  There was no sense of panic; just a driving need to make sure Louis was okay.

 

The heat radiated unbearably and he called out hoarsely for Louis, unable to see through the thick billowing smoke.  His eyes stung with tears as he made his way across the room, hands outstretched blindly.

 

Louis croaked Zayn’s name from behind a wall of smoky flames, and Zayn rushed forward in time to catch Louis before he collapsed on the floor.  One thing pounded through his head as he carried Louis’ body out onto the front lawn, blinding lights circling through the fog of smoke, from the paramedics and fire trucks, _We’re going to be okay_.

 

That one thing pushed him to be strong, to hold Louis close, even though his head lolled backwards, whites of his eyes showing.  Zayn’s strong and brave and everything Louis needs him to be, until he noticed his own house collapsed in flames next door, a pile of smoking ruin.  His skin was cold even in the wake of the inferno consuming everything around him. A police officer took Louis from his arms while another wrapped Zayn in a space blanket, leading him to the back of an ambulance.  Zayn couldn’t form words, he just silently watched paramedics strap Louis into the gurney of the ambulance across from him. 

 

Zayn would never forget the way he felt when the officer gripped his shoulders tightly, deep brown of his eyes surveying Zayn’s small frame.

 

_Was that your house? How many people were in the house, son?_

Zayn could never remember his answer, just the way the officer choked when he took Zayn in his arms, stroking his hair sympathetically.

 

_I’m so sorry, son._

The doors closed to Louis’ ambulance and the sirens blared to life, speeding down the road, taking away the only person Zayn had left in his life.       

     

-

 

Zayn’s granted special privileges at the orphanage he and Louis are sent to.  The matrons coo over his doe eyes and shock of inky hair, deeming him _the sweetest thing you’ll ever meet_.  But the privileges have nothing to do with that, and everything to do with Louis not recovering.  Zayn is as fine as he can be.  The only thing the doctor documented is how he feels far away sometimes.  Almost like he’s floating above whatever is happening at the time; there but not; suspended from reality.  He plays well with the other children though, and he sits through his lessons dutifully, he can even sleep through the night with little to no night terrors, but Louis is on another level and everyone notices.  He cries for hours on end, till he’s red in the face and gasping for air, the wail echoing through the halls.  During lessons he’ll scribble with red and orange crayons till the white notebook paper is only a blaze of color.  He won’t talk to the other children and goes almost catatonic when Zayn leaves him alone.  The officials at the orphanage realize quickly that Zayn is the only person able to tether Louis to some kind of stability, so they let them share a bedroom.

 

The years go on, and Louis only gets worse.  Zayn has plenty of wonderful mums and dads decide that he would be the perfect addition to their family, but Louis soils it every single time.  They’re a packaged deal, and Louis simply doesn’t want a new family.  Zayn learned that when they were ten years old and Louis held him down by the throat, with tears in his sad blue eyes, “You can’t let them take us, Zayn.  They’re not our families.  We can’t.  You need to listen to me.”  He had Louis’ fingerprints bruised into the skin of his neck for a week afterwards, but he refused to tell the matrons who’d been responsible.  Louis didn’t mean it.  Louis loved him.  Louis was just sad.

 

Zayn puts all of Louis’ disturbing actions aside.  He leaves it in the corner of his mind to collect dust, and simply focuses on the clear blue of his eyes, or the crinkles of his face when Zayn earns a genuine smile.  Louis is all he has left, he’ll be there for him till the day he dies, he assumes.  It’s not Louis’ fault that when he’s sad he burns like an ember, and Zayn’s the only extinguisher that works anymore.  That’s what makes it so much harder when Louis gets worse.

 

-

They’re thirteen when Louis has his first hallucination.  Zayn walks into their room after his morning shower, and is immediately thrown into the wall with such force his teeth clatter together.  His wet hair is dripping water and darkening the red fabric of Louis’ shirt till it looks like bloodstains.

 

“Louis, mate, what the fuck?” He hisses, trying to keep quiet so the workers don’t think there’s a problem and come looking for them.

 

Louis’ eyes are dull and a troubled blue, mouth a thin line.  “What are you doing in our house?” He demands, keeping Zayn pinned to the wall with a surprising grip.  Zayn notices he’s trembling and something in him knows this isn’t Louis talking; Louis is inside, trapped and scared.

 

“Hey, Louis, it’s just me c’mon.”  He feels a strike of panic when the warmth of recognition doesn’t flood into his gaze, and instead his blunt fingernails dig into his skin.  “It’s Zayn.”  He presses.  “Please let me go, I don’t want to call Dr. Langdon down.”

 

Louis is searching his face for something, and he doesn’t know what but it sends chills down his spine. “You’re the one who did it.”  Louis accuses in a hysterical tone.  “You did this to us and now we can’t get back.”

 

Zayn tries to shrug out of his grip, “What did I do, Lou?  Tell me what I did!  It’s me. It’s Zaynie.  I’d never do anything to hurt you. What’s going on with you?”  His voice cracks without his permission.  He’s never seen Louis this way before, and it’s like his heart crumbles into shards of broken glass, not being able to help, not even being recognized.  Zayn’s too busy in his own head to realize what’s happening till he’s gripping his cheek in his hand, pain flashing like a bolt of lightning.  A warm pulse of blood stains his fingers when he pulls it away, confusion coloring his face.  Louis is screaming a slew of profanities, flailing his arms into Zayn, trying to hit any part of him available.  He possesses the air of a vicious animal in captivity; blazing with the visceral desire to maim and kill.  Zayn grabs him by the arms after fighting fiercely for a few moments, he finally stills, allowing Zayn to bring him close to his chest just as multiple footsteps echo toward their room.

 

“Louis, shh. You’re okay. I have you, calm down.”  He rubs the hand without the bloodstains down the soft fluff of hair that lies in a swooped fringe across Louis’ forehead.  All the fight drains from him in that one moment, leaving him spineless, curled into the comfort of Zayn.    

 

“I’m sorry, oh god.  Did I do this to you, Zayn?”  Louis pulls away and his mouth is open in horror, blue eyes shining with the threat of tears.  His hand comes up to touch Zayn’s cheek where there are three gashes in the shape of his own fingers running along Zayn’s cheekbone.

 

Zayn nods, water droplets flinging off the ends of his hair.  “It’s noth-”

 

The voices are in their room now and they’re dragging Louis away from Zayn and it feels like that night all over again.  There are a million questions, and he doesn’t have the answers (or he does and he can’t remember).  He has no control, and adults are tearing them apart. 

 

“No, no, no, Zayn don’t let them take me.  I’m fine.  We’re fine.  I’m sorry!”  He’s shouting and it echoes off the walls, hallow and desperate.  He feels himself getting distant, like he’s hovering above the situation, watching Louis struggle and cry till Zayn’s alone in the room with the nurses who are tending to his face.  He’s numb to everything, even the stitches.  He floats back down hours later, lying on his bed, arms tucked behind his head like a pillow.  Louis is escorted into the room with a call from the nurse to _Be good_.

 

Zayn knows Dr. Langdon medicated him, because he lowers himself slowly and quietly onto the edge of their bed.  There are no words, just stiff shoulders.  Zayn reaches out to him, gently maneuvering Louis till he’s laying parallel to him.  He nuzzles his face into the crook of Louis’ neck, sighing when he breathes in the familiar smell.

 

His voice is flat when he rises a bit from his stupor.  “They told me you begged to let us stay together.”

 

Zayn just nods his head.  “Can’t do this without you.”  He mumbles sadly, because it’s true.

 

He feels Louis relax into him before he’s turning around so they’re eye-to-eye.  Louis’ face is stoic but his eyes are desperately searching for purchase in Zayn’s soft features.  His fingers clutch in the cotton of Zayn’s sweater and his breaths are coming out labored.  The eyes that normally gleam with contentedness around him are shimmering with tears that are spilling down his cheeks.  Zayn can feel panic crawling up his throat because something must be wrong, Dr. Langdon must have done something to him; but then Louis’ lips are on his, and it sucks the panic out of him.  Their mouths move gently against each other, soft, reassuring caresses.  It’s a reminder that they’re in this together.  No one will know the feeling that constantly consumes them better than the other.  It will always be the two of them, and it will always, always, be worth it.   

 

Louis pulls away first, pressing their foreheads together.  “Don’t let them take me away.”  He croaks, burying his tear stained cheeks into Zayn’s chest until he falls asleep.

 

-

 

They’re seventeen when their deepest fears finally consume them.

 

Each morning begins with a grounding touch to the shoulder as Zayn styles Louis’ hair for him.  Each night ends with a goodnight kiss that feels like they’re the only ones left in the world.  They share a bed, not just a bedroom.  They share the secrets that make up the small space between them, not just the same oxygen.  They build up towering walls of red brick to keep out anyone who will tear them apart.

 

That’s why it hurts so much when it happens.  That’s why their world jolts to a stop, leaving the rest hovering in zero gravity.  It’s supposed to be the two of them against the world.  Louis can take his aggression out on Zayn, and Zayn will keep quiet, never muttering a word about the fingerprints, or scratches.  Things are fine, great even; they have everything under control- until they don’t.

 

Zayn has Louis’s face in his hands, thumb grazing his cheek delicately.  Louis bows his head so Zayn can press a kiss to the top of his head, and Louis’ clear blue eyes close with a sense of pure contentedness.  “I’ll see you soon, love.”  He murmurs, lips moving against the softness of his sandy-blonde hair.  “Save me a seat at breakfast, yeah?”

 

Louis nods and offers a watery smile.  He used to whimper for Zayn not to leave him, but he’s gotten so much better at letting Zayn stray away to get things done. Zayn has to see his English tutor because he’s almost done with his book and she thinks he may have a chance at getting it published.  They’re just going over minor editing details, then they’ll send it out and see what comes back.

 

“Promise I won’t be long, Lou.  Don’t worry.”  He kisses him warmly and forces himself to pull away because once he starts he may never stop.  He wants to kiss Louis till the worried creases between his eyebrows smooth anyway, but his appointment was set for ten minutes ago.

 

Zayn’s told by his tutor that his story telling skills are unmatched and have progressed beyond her wildest dreams.  When she tells him she’s found an agent for him, he hardly contains his joy, tears spilling down his cheeks.  He and Louis are set to leave the orphanage in a year’s time, and this could be his big break, his way to support the two of them after this nightmare.

 

“You deserve this, Zayn.”  His tutor says as she hugs him in celebration.  “They’ll be in touch by the end of this week.”

 

He makes his way to the cafeteria for breakfast, extra pep in his step, his whole body thrumming with energy.  He can hardly wait to see Louis’ face when he tells him he wrote a novel and someone thinks it’s good, and they have a chance at a future.  His mind keeps trying to formulate a way to tell him the exciting news- _Louis, you know when I zone out at my desk and you get sad that I’m not cuddling you?  It’s ‘cos I’ve been working on a book.  They like it, Lou._

_I wrote our story, Lou.  It’ll sell, and we’ll have money and a place to live.  You can stop worrying now._

_I’ve got exciting news, but you have to promise not to be mad.  I wanted it to be a surprise._

_I love you so-_

His mind comes to a screeching halt when he opens the door to the cafeteria.  His hair stands on edge and the feeling of absolute dread he’s grown to expect, but has never grown used to, floods through his body.  His hand falls from the door handle in a limp manner.  He can see the sound radiating from the room but all he hears is the blood rushing through his ears.

 

“Keep your dog on a fucking leash, Malik!”  Zayn looks up with a confused look when he’s pushed by one of the other boys his age, Adam, he thinks is his name. 

 

Zayn ignores him and shoves through the crowd to where Louis is kicking and screaming against Doctor Langdon, wild like a flame.  At the center of everything is a boy curled up on the floor, hand pressed to his chest, blood staining his white t-shirt with a Rorschach pattern.  “Get off of me! Zayn! Zayn, oh god, help me.”  Louis is yelling, but his voice is hoarse and the anger is gone, replaced with fear.

 

The security guards are trying to pry the bloodied fork out of Louis’ grip.  Zayn’s chest aches at Louis, his Louis, small and scared being overpowered by large men who have orders to do whatever it takes to stop him from hurting more people.  Zayn turns to look for a friendly face, someone who is on their side, but there’s absolutely no one.  By the time he turns back around, the security guards and Louis are gone.  Everyone is staring at him, and his whole body feels cold.  Louis is gone.

 

He needs to find Louis.

 

He turns on his heel and bolts through the cafeteria doors.  Zayn looks around the hall frantically, breath ragged until he hears the harmony of Louis’ name through a closed door.  He slows his breathing and tries to focus on the conversation happening from behind the door.

 

“We turned a blind eye to his condition for the sake of Mr. Malik, but we can’t do that anymore.  Something must be done about Louis.” 

 

Zayn’s eyes widen and he presses his ear closer to the cool wood of the door.  There’s another voice, a man this time.

 

“We have to institutionalize him.  We have no other choice.  He’s a danger to the others.”  There’s a pause where there seems to be an objection.  “I understand, but you have to ask yourself, how long until he unintentionally kills someone?”

 

Zayn pulls away from the door with a sharp grimace, as if he’s been burned.  His mind is whirring and he can feel himself floating away but he has to stay grounded right now, for Louis’ sake.  He takes a filling breath and closes his eyes willing himself to listen to what comes next.  It’s the man again.  A faceless man who is singlehandedly tearing down everything he and Louis worked for. The bricks are crumbling like the Berlin wall and Zayn, who has never had a flare of violence spark through his veins, wants to strangle the man.

 

“I’ll call Bethlem now and make the necessary arrangements.  I expect Mr. Tomlinson to be ready by this evening.  Make sure Mr. Malik is preoccupied when it happens.”         

 

Zayn tears away from the door and runs down the hallway, sneakers squeaking against the freshly waxed tile.  He has to find Louis, he has to warn him, protect him, _anything_ , because they’re going to take him away forever.  He’s frantically scrambling through the halls, ears piqued to hear Louis through the dozens of doors when he skids to halt outside a door he’s never noticed before.  It’s at the very end of the West Wing, and has a one-way mirror where the window should be.  His hand shakes when he reaches to cautiously press it against the wood. 

 

A low, strangled whine comes from behind the door and that’s all Zayn needs to twist the knob and push the door, but the door doesn’t budge.

 

“Fuck.” Zayn backs away from the door, taking a large breath, running his hands through his long hair, slowly moving them down to scrub at his face.  He has to calm himself down or he’ll never get them out of here. “ _Shit_.”     

 

“ _Zayn_?”

 

He chokes out a sob, rushing the door again, pressing his mouth against the wood.  “Louis?”  He whispers, his voice cracking.  God, it feels so amazing to hear Louis’ voice.  “Louis.  Just- Just…” He pressed his cheek against the cool glass of the mirror, trying to focus on not floating away.  Louis fucking needs him and he’s using every technique Dr. Langdon had taught him for staying grounded.  “Hang tight, mate.  The door’s locked, but I’m getting you out.”

 

“Louis, I’m going to get you out.  Do you hear me?”  Zayn feels his heart drops when all he hears is sniffling from the other side.  “Stay back from the door, love.  I’m going to count to three and then I’m coming in.”  He warns, taking five steps back to build up momentum.  Zayn’s always been wiry and average height, not a single thing about him screams tough or intimidating, but when it comes to Louis his adrenaline rushes so fast he’s sure he could lift a bus off the ground.

 

He tucks his head and steels himself, running shoulder first at the door so it bursts open.  If he wasn’t completely horrified by what he finds in the room, he might have worried about how much his shoulder ached.  Louis in the corner of what seems to be a supply closet.  His face is blotchy and tear streaked, but underneath his ruddy cheeks, Zayn can see lowlights of bruises littering his skin, from the sharpness of his cheekbone, to the hinge of his jaw.  Zayn’s kneeling next to him in moments, fingers, feather–light, moving along the bruises, tilting his chin this-way and that, making sure there’s no more damage.  The room is completely destroyed, so the guards must have fought with Louis bringing him in here, and Louis probably fought back, too scared not to.  There’s smashed paint cans littering the floor, and a metal shelf is toppled over, creating an overhang with Louis’ tiny frame curled up under it, knees to his chest. 

 

“Are you okay?”  Zayn breathes, bringing Louis close to his chest, so he can bury his face in Louis’ hair.  His hands don’t come up to rest on Zayn’s back the way they normally would.  He just sits there, tears soundlessly leaking against Zayn’s neck.  “Say something, Lou.  Please, babe.” 

 

Louis’ breath comes out as a shudder and his bottom lip trembles.  “I’m scared.”  He whimpers, ducking his head to the side so Zayn can’t look him in the eyes.  That’s when he realizes Louis’ hands are zip tied behind his back and the soft skin of his wrists is worn down to bloody cuts.  A flood of anger rushes Zayn at that.  He’s practically seeing red, but his movements along Louis’ arms are gentle caresses because he needs Louis to be brave just long enough for Zayn to get his shit together.

 

“They can’t do this to you.”  He says against the shell of Louis’ ear, fingers twirling in the hair at the nape of his neck in a way that’s always calmed him.  “I won’t let them hurt you again.  And they’re _not_ taking you away from me.”  He grinds out, standing up in a flash, looking about the room for something to cut the ties with.

 

When he can’t find anything, he resorts to patting his pockets quickly, because they don’t have much time before someone comes looking for either of them.  He lets out a sigh of relief when he feels his zippo in his pocket. 

 

If he can’t cut them, he could burn them off.

 

He crouches down to Louis’ eye level.  Making sure he sees that it’s him, it’s Zayn.  “Louis.”  He says gently.  “I’m going to need you to trust me.  I know you do, but I need you to know that this is going to hurt and that I don’t want it to, but it will.”  He takes Louis’ head in his hands, pressing a kiss to his forehead with closed eyes, wishing they were six again, before things were shot to hell.

 

“I love you.  God, I love you.”  He says with his forehead pressed to Louis’.  Zayn maneuvers to reach behind Louis and flips the top off of his lighter.  He knows how the burn of the flame is going to startle Louis, how he’ll probably get trapped in his head with that voice telling him to destroy whatever’s causing the sting on his skin, similar to the way it burned through the night of the fire.  Zayn just says a silent prayer that their bond is strong enough that he can get Louis through it.

 

He runs his thumb along ribbed circle, igniting the flame, waving it back and forth against the plastic, and trying to avoid Louis’ bloodied wrists as much as possible.  Zayn shivers when he notices that Louis hasn’t even flinched.  He’s sitting there, staring into the hallway with dull eyes and an expressionless face, all while his flesh bubbles under the flame.  The plastic melts away and Louis’ wrists separate from one another, falling limp at his sides.  He’s practically a ragdoll, and he’s not responding to any of Zayn’s touches.  After one of his fits, he’s normally like this, but he’s more retreated into himself than ever and it’s worrying to Zayn.

 

“Babe you have to listen to me.  Stay with me, we just need to get out now and you’ll be safe.”  He wraps an arm around Louis’ waist and hoists him up, supporting all of his weight.

 

His mind flutters from one idea to the next, moving deliberately through their options.  There’s one thing he keeps coming back to, and it’s not ideal, but none of this is ideal.  He drags Louis to his tutor’s office and swings the door open, revealing her shocked face as she sits at her desk just in front of two wall length windows.

 

“Zayn?!”  She exclaims, rising quickly from her chair, closing the door behind them. 

 

“Miss. Watts, you have to help me, please.”  Zayn begs.  The softness that overtakes her warm brown eyes relaxes Zayn tenfold.  He knew she would help him. 

 

“What’s happened, love?”  She asks with a young tanned hand to his shoulder.

 

Zayn sucks in a breath, biting his lip when he looks at Louis who looks so, so defeated with his head leaning against Zayn’s shoulder. 

 

“They’re taking Louis away.  Sending him away because he had a fit but security beat him and put him in a utility closet until the van comes to pick him up.”  He forgot how close he was to crying until his cheeks are already wet and Miss. Watts is enveloping Zayn and Louis in a tight embrace.

 

“So you’re running away with him.”  She concludes when she pulls away. 

 

“We have to!  I don’t have a choice anymore.  I have to keep him safe, you know that.”  He chokes, because if anyone knows what’s at stake right now, it’s the woman who read their story from cover to cover and believed in it.  She had always believed in Zayn’s love for Louis.     

 

She walks back to her desk, rustling through some of her drawers until she finds what she’s looking for and beckons Zayn and Louis over.  He limps under Louis’ weight but when he sees what’s on her desk his heart drops.

 

“Take it with you.”  She says, picking up the manuscript of Zayn’s novel and handing it over to him with two hands.  He cradles it under his arm that isn’t supporting Louis.  She opens the window behind her desk and motions for them to climb through.

 

He helps Louis out first, making sure he hops down onto the grass safely

 

Miss. Watts reaches out a hand to Zayn and he takes it, there’s a press of plastic against his skin.  She meets his eyes and tucks a strand of black hair behind her ear.  “I wish things could have been different for the two of you.”  She says softly.  “Take care of yourself, Zayn.”  She pulls her hand away and Zayn is left with a credit card in his palm.

 

“Thank you.”  He says, pocketing the card and following Louis out the window.

 

She latches it behind him and as he walks away with Louis and the manuscript tucked under his arms, he watches her shrink smaller and smaller.

 

“Can you walk on your own?”  Zayn asks, steadying Louis’ arm.  Louis nods his reply but keeps silent.  He moves forward, eyes on the line of trees on the edge of the orphanage property.  Soon enough he becomes aware that he doesn’t hear Louis shuffling through the grass anymore.  Turning to look behind him, he sees Louis sitting in the grass, knees to his chest, mouth forming indistinguishable words.

 

Zayn jogs over to him and he just hears a litany of _no’_ s falling from his lips.  He’s rocking back and forth slightly and Zayn lowers himself down to hold him in his arms.  “What’s wrong, Louis?  I know you’re not feeling well right now, but we’ve got to keep moving before they come looking for us.”

 

Louis is hiccupping from sobbing so hard.  His legs are splayed out in front of him and he’s wiping at his nose with the bloodied sleeve of his jumper.  He takes a deep breath and clenches his fist into the material of Zayn’s t-shirt.  “I’m a monster, Zayn.  Just leave me here.  Please just leave me here.” He pleads, lips parted so his teeth graze his bottom lip in a half formed wail.  “I can’t keep fucking up your life.”  

 

“I will _never_ leave you, Louis.”  Zayn says roughly, because he wishes Louis knew how much love he holds inside himself for every fibre of Louis’ being.  He’ll stand with him whether he’s sick or healthy, broken or mended.  He doesn’t know how to let him know.  Leaning forward he gently presses his lips to Louis’, careful not to press his fingers against the scattered bruises that are tinted a vile aubergine.  Louis responds with a soft wine, mouthing against the contours of Zayn’s full bottom lip.

 

“We’re in this together, and I love you.”  He breathes, followed by a series of short pecks.

 

Louis let’s Zayn help him up and they amble into the forest hand in hand, walking in the direction of a myth Zayn heard of when they were just children.

 

He has a plan.  It’s not a good one, but it’s something.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially this was supposed to be just two parts, but I'm going to make it a bit longer than that because I'm enjoying writing it so much.
> 
> If you like it make sure to let me know! 
> 
> tumblr: hailsatanstyles


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a song by Bastille that really reminds me of this story so if you wanna listen it's called "Things We Lost In the Fire" like, it's so on point.
> 
> uhmmm so if anyone pays attention to the tags they'll notice there's been a few things added to it since last time. so i'm making a note here for the trigger warnings in the chapter (basically everything under the sun i'm sorry)
> 
> ********tw: self harm, suicide attempt, mental instability, hallucinations, burns, physical attack, blood, smut

* * *

 

It’s half past ten when Zayn stumbles into the car park of a 24–hour petrol station.  His breath comes in visible puffs in the late-Autumn air and he instinctively pulls Louis closer to his side, trying to transfer whatever body heat he’s producing to the smaller boy.  Every bit of his body is throbbing dully, from the balls of his feet, to his biceps, after supporting Louis’ weight for so long.  The beam of light from the lamppost illuminates them like a spotlight, and for the first time in a few hours, he can properly see Louis’ face. His normally sharp features are rounded, skin swollen with vivid bruises, dried blood crusted at the corner of his thin lips.  Zayn brushes a thumb lightly over the skin causing Louis’ eyes to flutter closed, eyelashes casting long, spidery shadows over his pallid cheekbones.

 

“C’mon, Lou. Only a few more minutes, babe.” Zayn practically whispers, gingerly hoisting the smaller boy more into his side a bit more comfortably. Louis nods slowly with a quiet whimper. 

 

Zayn can’t even begin to imagine the amount of pain Louis is in.  Can’t believe he’s still conscious, even. He’d do anything to lessen it. He’s trying so hard, but nothing seems to make it better.  Zayn’s been grabbing at anything that’s looked as if it could ease the burden of a terrible life since they were seven years old, and now Louis is physically _broken_ in his arms, and he still can’t mend it. 

 

But he’s trying, and it’ll all start here.  From here on out, nothing will hurt Louis.  Or at least nothing that Zayn can’t physically stop.

 

They make their way to the side of the convenience store of the station, where Zayn yanks open the door to the public restroom.  He wrinkles his nose at the strong smell of urine but goes in anyway, hand resting on Louis’ back as he lowers him to sit on the toilet lid. The fluorescent lighting is blinding against the white tiled walls, stained grey with grime. There’s a small sink and a mirror that’s only slightly rusted over at its edges- the basics. Zayn runs his hands up and down Louis’ arms, trying to keep him concentrated, but he only continues to look at the floor.

 

“I’m going inside to get a few things.  I need bandages and stuff so I can clean you up.  I’ll get you some snacks too.”  Louis still won’t acknowledge that Zayn’s talking to him, so he slowly lifts Louis’ chin up with the pads of his fingers.  “Lou?  I’ll only be a few minutes.  Please just wait here, Love.” 

 

His cerulean eyes are completely unfocused and Zayn’s stomach swoops at that. He doesn’t want to leave Louis. Not even for a second. Probably _shouldn’t_ leave him.  But there’s no way he can come inside looking like that, and without proper cleaning he’ll get an infection.  Zayn has to cut his losses and just get everything as quickly as he can.

 

Zayn pushes aside Louis’ messy fringe to softly press his lips against his forehead. “I love you so much.”           

 

He’s too busy making a mental list of things they need to even hear Louis’ quiet ‘ _Don’t’_ before he shuts the door behind him.

 

 

-

 

 

Zayn toes open the bathroom door, haphazardly balancing an armful of rubbing alcohol, gauze, plasters, water bottles, and a bag of SunChips Zayn bought special for Louis.

 

“See, I wasn’t too lo–”

 

The supplies promptly slip from his grasp, clattering to the floor like a forgotten penny when his eyes catch the all-encompassing red.  He falls to his knees in shock, the contact stinging fiercely.

 

“No.” He chokes out. Zayn couldn’t even feel the tips of his fingers if he wanted to as he clambered across the tile towards Louis who was numbly staring at his wrists, hands shaking dangerously. He gets blood on the knees of his jeans, the stains so dark it could pass for black.  Pushing the shards of the broken mirror away with his shirtsleeve, he curls up next to Louis, trying to control his breathing before saying anything.  Louis breaks first.

 

“I’m s–sorry.”

 

He sounds so weak. His eyes are looking everywhere and nowhere, trying to understand whether or not he’s done something bad; he’s looking everywhere but into Zayn’s own eyes.  Zayn grabs his wrists in his hands, grip unsteady in the warm slip of blood flowing out of jagged, uncalculated cuts.

 

“No. No sorry, yeah? I’ll clean you up. You’re going to be fine.” Zayn rushes.  “You’re going to be fine and we’ll start new, Louis. No more of this, please. I love you.”  Before he can even try to stop the trembling of his bottom lip, he’s crying.  The tears are rolling down his cheeks, sloppy and horrid.

 

“I wish I could help you.  How do I–how can I…? _Fuck_.  I can’t.  I can’t do this without you, Louis.  How do I get you to realise that?”  He begs; his eyes slipping closed in a silent prayer.

 

Louis has his head tilted back against the wall, staring off into the distance, agony etched into every line in his young face.  Zayn whimpers, thumbing away some of the blood to try and see the cuts better. If they aren’t so deep, he could just bandage it, no stitches– simple. 

 

“I don’t want this anymore.”  Louis squirms away from Zayn’s touch as if he’s on fire. “I don’t.  Zayn! _Zayn_ , I don’t want it.  Help me. Please.”

 

At that he snaps into action, lifting Louis by the underarms to walk him to the sink so he can wash the blood down the drain and properly see what he’s dealing with. Louis’ knees quake as he tries to stand.  _Please, Please, Please_. Louis repeats the words over and over again, voice cracking over the vowels in-between hisses of pain.

 

“A-Am I going to die?”  Louis sobs, bottom lip tucked under his teeth to try and stop it from quivering. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to leave you.” He breaks, a fresh wave of tears streaming down his face.

 

Zayn takes a steadying breath.  “You’re not going to die, Louis.  I won’t let you.”

 

In the end, Zayn is more worried about the mental damage rather than the physical since the mutilations somehow don’t need stitches.  He’s tightly wrapped each wrist in gauze, and Louis is leaning his elbows on the edge of the sink in prayer position, sitting on the toilet seat cover.

 

“It stops the blood from flowing if you keep it over your heart.”  Zayn comments as he dabs at the cuts on Louis’ face with alcohol soaked gauze.  Zayn’s honestly trying not to scream and collapse in a heap on the floor, sobbing and begging for answers as to why Louis would try and take his own life.

 

“Heart.” Louis notes absently.

 

“Yeah.” Zayn bends over to pick up one of the water bottles that’s still cool to the touch, placing it against a bruise along Louis’ temple, coaxing the swelling to go down. “Uhm, I have a plan.” He says.

 

“It’s not a good one, and you can tell me if you don’t like it, but it’s the only thing I could think of. “

 

Louis waits patiently to be told, making no move to speak on his own.

 

Zayn continues on, “We’ll sleep here tonight, get our bearings.  Then in the morning we’ll grab everything we need from the shop inside and head out.  Remember… Do you remember the story of Harrington Hill at all?”

 

Finally Louis’ eyes flicker to life, shooting questions at Zayn.  “It’s haunted, yeah?”

 

“Well, I mean… Those are just stories. But it’s nearby. It’s abandoned. We can live there until we find something better.”  Zayn offers.  “I just can’t have you homeless, Louis.  I won’t see you go cold, or hungry.  I’m going to take care of you.”

 

Louis’ eyebrows draw together at that but he nods.  Zayn starts applying ointment on the remaining scrapes along his face, and then moves him to the floor, away from the blood.  Louis presses his back to Zayn’s chest, hand coming around to grasp at Zayn’s as well.

 

“It’s you and me, Louis.  I love you so, so much. And I’m going to remind you every day.  So much that you’ll wish I’d shut up.”  Zayn stops to yawn, fingers slowly carding through Louis’ hair.  “I know–I know how selfish it is to ask you to stay for me… But I honestly don’t know how I would live without you.”

 

“Does that make sense?”  He asks, curling his body tighter around Louis’, feeling a chill rack his body.

 

It’s quiet for a moment, and Zayn thinks Louis has drifted off until he hears it.

 

“I love you.”

 

-

 

It’s a beautiful day.  The sun that rarely shines in the dismal moors hangs high in the sky, eliminating the chill of the night before.  Everything is bathed in a golden hue and the clouds pass at a leisurely pace as they make their way through the swaying grass.  Louis’ hand is clasped in Zayn’s own as he leads him toward the structure in the distance that seems to sprawl for miles.  Their free hands are weighed down by plastic bags filled with food and water, bought with the credit card Zayn’s tutor had slipped him.

 

Zayn’s bone tired after hardly sleeping on the cold tiled floor of the petrol station restroom.  He couldn’t fall asleep. Couldn’t possibly when all he could see when he closed his eyes was red.  As tired as he feels, it’s nothing compared to the way Louis looks. His blue eyes are sunken in, face smeared with constellations of bruises, and shoulders slumped in defeat. They’re exhausted from running, but when the mansion comes into view Louis’ eyebrows draw in concentration, and suddenly he’s moving faster than he has in days.

 

Zayn bumps shoulders with Louis and gives him a reassuring grin.  “Almost there, babe.”

 

As they approach the manor, minute aesthetic details of the come into focus, like the tendrils of ivy tangling through the barred railings of the marble steps, the spider web cracks that shoot across the dingy glass of the Victorian round top windows, and the once presumably breathtaking stone of the walls that have crumbled away into dust.

 

They stand at the base of the moss covered stairs drinking it all in, and Louis turns his face to the sun, a closed mouth smile taking over his features. He’s breathing deeply and turns to lean his body into Zayn, face nuzzling his collar.

 

“We’re here.” He says into Zayn’s neck, lips ghosting over the skin.  “I can’t believe we made it.”

 

Zayn crooks his fingers under Louis’ chin to tilt it up, joining their lips in a chaste kiss.  He hardly pulls away, keeping their foreheads touching.  “We’re going to be okay.”  He whispers, reaching down for his hand, fingers instead catching on the bandages wrapped around his wrists. 

 

Louis nods with his eyes closed, then moves to make his way up the marble steps, Zayn trailing behind.

 

The sunlight is casting through the windows of the foyer.  The dust particles dance in the beams, and it’s breathtaking how majestic the interior appears even after decades of abandonment. They drop their bags in the entryway as the door clunks shut behind them.     

 

“So many stories.” Louis breathes, eyes sweeping from the gold chandelier dressed in cobwebs, to the massive oil painting portraits on the walls, with newfound wonder.

 

Zayn stays in the doorway, watching Louis as he tentatively strokes the dust covered surfaces. “Do you remember?” He asks.  Growing up in the orphanage one of the most popular stories perpetuated was the haunting of Harrington Hill.  The details were so graphic and chilling he’d have to hold Louis through the nights following the story being told.

 

Louis touches the wooden railing of the grand staircase with his fingertips, nodding. “The son in the study­–“ He starts, slowly. He walks his fingers up the railing. “The daughter in the bathroom, the mother in the conservatory.”  Louis pauses on the third step and casts a glance over his shoulder to look at Zayn. “The father, _right here_.”  He finishes, gesturing widely to the open space above his head.

 

“A bit ironic that we end up here after growing up with all those ghost stories.” Louis chuckles.

 

Zayn approaches Louis and wraps the smaller boy up in his arms.  “I ain’t afraid of no ghost!”  He sings into Louis’ ear goofily, hoping to lighten the mood. He wants this house to be a fresh start.  Their new life together. 

 

“Yeah?” Louis challenges,  “Well good thing I have a big strong man to scare them away because I’m quite terrified of them.”

 

Zayn continues humming the _Ghostbusters_ theme into the shell of Louis’ ear and they dissolve into a fit of laughter. Once they gain their composure again, Zayn takes a deep breath,  “We’re going to be okay now, Louis.”

 

 

-

 

After weeks of sleeping on the floorboards and waking up to sore necks and stiff backs, Louis decides he’s had enough.  While Zayn mucks about with spray cans left in the piano room, he grabs a torch and climbs the narrow stairs to the attic.  It’s one of the only rooms they haven’t searched thoroughly since moving in, and he crosses his fingers that maybe there’ll be something they can use as a makeshift bed. 

 

He nudges the door open and the beam of light from the torch reveals low, slanted ceilings and dusted-over sheets covering items throughout the room. There’s a feeling that radiates from the bare walls that leaves Louis reeling in a way he hasn’t felt in the house before.  The floorboards groan under his weight as he moves forward to uncover a wardrobe in the center of the room.  He opens the wooden door, engraved with floral patterns and a chill bursts through him, making him roll his shoulders uncomfortably.

 

“This was so _stu_ -pid.”  Louis sing-songs under his breath as he shoves assorted bits of furniture around to get a better look at what’s been piled up and forgotten over the years.

 

He loses his footing over a child’s cradle, and involuntarily wrinkles his nose; it raises the memory of his little sisters and makes his skin crawl.  Inside the decrepit piece of furniture is a porcelain doll, with its glass eyes sightlessly staring up at Louis.  The face has a crack shooting down the cheek and its curls are matted down and falling out.  “Sufficiently creepy.”  He takes a calming breath, trying to will away the image of Fizzie and Lottie toddling around their house with fountain ponytails.  “Okay.  _Okay_.”  He coaches himself, trying not to slip into that dark place without Zayn there to help.  Louis turns in half circles quickly, hoping the light of his flashlight catches sight of something useful so he can _get the fuck out of there_.

 

It’s almost like divine beings hear his silent prayers because almost immediately the light catches on something behind a dresser.  He puts the torch in his mouth, and uses all his weight to push the furniture over to get a better look.  A mattress flops over, almost crushing Louis.  “ _Yesh_.” He cries with his teeth still gripping the flashlight.  He grabs it out of his mouth and stands it up on the dresser so he can move the bed. His body almost buckles under the weight of the mattress, but he manages to quickly shuffle his feet, dragging it across the floor towards the door.  He props the mattress in the doorframe and leans his hands on his knees, panting with exertion.  

 

“Louis?”

 

Louis nearly jumps out of his own skin at the quiet inquiry that comes from behind him.

 

“Come play with me, Louis.”  The little girl’s voice comes again, thin and dissipating into the stale air of the attic. He turns back towards that cradle, silently praying he won’t see the faded image of a little girl in the darkness.  He’s met with nothing but empty space.  As he takes a step forward to where he left the torch on top of a dresser, it clatters to the floor on its own, the bulb bursting on impact, extinguishing the light.

 

“Oh, _fuck that_.”  He gasps, putting all his energy into shoving the mattress down the stairwell, chasing after it.  The sound of giggling carries through the space, trailing down and wrapping him up in the spirit’s gleeful victory. 

 

Louis doesn’t look back.

 

 

-

 

 

That night Zayn collapses in an exhausted heap on the mattress, a groan escaping his throat as soon as his body makes contact with the soft material.

 

“Smells like mothballs, but it’s _so good_.” Zayn grins as Louis slowly crawls hands and knees onto the bed.

 

“No more floors for us.”  Louis says. “We’re practically living at a proper five-star now.” 

 

Louis turns his body to curl against Zayn’s side, hand gliding over the fabric of his grey undershirt, fingers spread wide across his chest.  Desire creeps through his veins and suddenly he can’t take his eyes off of the way Zayn’s lips move to form words.  “Honestly, Lou.  You’re a fucking Saint for finding this thing.”

 

Louis hums absentmindedly, pressing his lips against the sharp cut of Zayn’s jaw. He leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses along his neck, stopping to scrape his teeth lightly over Zayn’s adam’s apple. 

 

“Miss you.” Louis says against his skin, maneuvering himself so he’s straddling Zayn, chests pressed together as if they’re hoping to mold together to form one being. 

 

“Miss me? You see me everyday.” He exhales softly when Zayn’s hands run over his ribs to rest on his hips, holding him firmly in place. 

 

“Mmm, miss you even when you’re sitting next to me.” Louis connects their mouths messily, sucking Zayn’s bottom lip between his own.  Their tongues glide against each other, kisses becoming increasingly bruising as Louis guides Zayn’s hand off his waist to pin it above Zayn’s head, lacing their fingers together. 

 

And as good as it feels red flags are popping up in Zayn’s mind.  Louis doesn’t get like this unless he’s on the brink of a break with reality.  He’ll try to desperately grab anything real to stay grounded.  “Are you okay, Lou?”  He asks between kisses, not wanting to stop, but too worried about Louis to continue.

 

“Brilliant.” Louis pants against his lips, grinding his arse down against Zayn’s crotch.  His breath hitches when he feels the already slight bulge in Zayn’s joggers.  “Please, Love. Just–” He whines, moving his hips in desperate figure eights, dragging Zayn’s full lips back into a filthy kiss.

 

“I just want you.”

“Are–Are you sure?”  Zayn huffs out, fingers woven through Louis’ overgrown hair.  They’ve slept in the same bed since they were nine years old, but sloppy hand jobs and surreptitious blowjobs were as far as they dared to go until now.

 

Louis is hovering over Zayn, fringe dangling, eyes scanning his face; desperately searching for something he can’t put a name to. “You’re the only person who’s ever loved me.” He says simply. It’s a fact more than a feeling; it’s a part of who they are.  Everything they have done since they were seven years old has been spurred on by the all-encompassing love they have for each other.  “I’ve never been more sure.”

“Okay. Okay.” Zayn says dazed as Louis tugs Zayn’s shirt over his head.  “Love you.”  He captures Louis’ lips once more, mouths slick, dragging soft and sweet noises from the back of Louis’ throat.  He pulls away to take his own shirt off, the fabric landing on the floor on top of Zayn’s. Louis’ weight shifts off of Zayn’s hips as his fingers work deftly on the button and zipper of his trousers, pulling them and his pants off.  He follows suit until he’s lying naked on the mattress cock half-hard.

 

Louis’ tongue darts out nervously before he settles with his knees trapping Zayn from both sides. “Want your fingers inside me.  Stretch me so you can fill me up, _please_.” Louis is small but Zayn feels like he’s everywhere, taking control of all of Zayn’s senses. “Wanna make you feel good.”

 

Zayn slowly traces Louis’ lips with reverent amber eyes. Louis takes him by the wrist, guiding his finger into his open mouth.  He wraps his tongue around Zayn’s finger, teasing up and down, slicking it up and mimicking the tight heat of his arse.  Zayn’s head swims when Louis takes a second finger in his mouth, sucking all the way down to his knuckle. 

 

“Fuck, _Lou_.”  He moans, squirming under Louis’ weight, cock throbbing.

 

His blue eyes look up at Zayn with innocence.  He pulls Zayn’s fingers from his mouth, a string of spit dribbling down his chin. Louis doesn’t even make a move to wipe it away and that drives Zayn mad.  

 

“C’mon, Zee.”  Louis coaxes.  He lifts his arse up so Zayn can reach around to rub his slick fingers against his entrance.  Zayn presses the tip in which earns a startled gasp from Louis.  He sinks in deeper reveling at the way Louis pitches his body backward, into the intrusion.  His jaw slackens when Zayn works a second finger in, slowly scissoring Louis open.

 

“Let me–” He whimpers, taking Zayn’s cock by the base squeezing lightly.  Louis ducks his head down, licking a strip up the underside of Zayn before he’s taking him down fully with hollowed cheeks.  The suction of his mouth is incredible but the way his tongue slides to caress the crown of Zayn, slicking it up. It’s messy and clumsy and totally beautiful.  Louis’ lips are shiny and red, and there’s spit dripping down his chin.  Zayn crooks his fingers inside Louis to graze his prostate and Louis’ whole body shudders on top of him.        

 

“Tell me when, babe.”  Zayn coaches.

 

He makes one last motion to lap at the tip of Zayn’s cock, making sure it’s lubed enough to make it more pleasure than pain.

 

“Good. ‘M good.” He says, pupils blown wide. “’M gonna ride you. Fuck.  Been dreaming about this for–for so long.” He admits, hand on Zayn’s cock guiding it to his entrance.  Louis lowers himself down onto Zayn’s cock slowly, lip tucked under his teeth in concentration.  Louis keens when Zayn hits his prostate.  He wiggles on Zayn’s lap to try and find the spot again, and when he does he arches his back with a gasp.  He works up a rhythm, lifting his hips up and down to bounce on Zayn’s dick. Zayn reaches a hand up to caress the line of Louis’ neck, making it’s way down to the flushed red of his chest.  

 

“Fucking. Shit– _Louis_.  Lou, I love you.”  He pants, arching his back obscenely.  His hips sink deeper into the mattress forcing Louis to chase him down with little whines.

 

His hands splay across Zayn’s chest, the support allowing him to rock his hips back and forth, head thrown back in a haze of pleasure.  Zayn’s close, and can tell Louis is too by the way his eyes are squeezed tight.  “Babe, _babe_.”  Zayn stills Louis’ hips with his hands and uses the distraction to thrust up into Louis fast and strong.  The way Louis’ fingernails scrape feebly at Zayn’s chest and the sound of his grunts mixed with Louis’ breathy whines has Zayn reeling.  He unravels with his hips stilled, buried deep inside Louis. Louis comes as Zayn rides out his orgasm, clenching around him and smearing his stomach with come.

 

Louis collapses on Zayn, light enough for it to hardly bother Zayn at all. He’s carding through his raven coloured hair, blue eyes glassy and unfocused in his post-orgasm fog.        

“You’re incredible.”  Louis says breathlessly against the skin of Zayn’s neck.  His fringe is plastered to the side of his face and a rosy flush has taken over his cheeks.  “I love you.  I really love you.”

 

Zayn runs a hand through Louis’ hair to push it away from his face and presses a kiss to his forehead.  “Ditto.” He whispers.   “More than you’ll ever know.”

 

Louis hums contentedly at that and rolls off of his chest, snuggling in as close to Zayn as humanly possible, absorbing his warmth.

 

They’re quietly facing each other, legs tangled, breathing synched and Louis should be happy, and he is, he’s so happy to finally _be_ with Zayn.   But something is holding him back from reaching a safe version of happy. Right now he can still feel the thrum of worry under his fevered skin, threatening to take over. Louis brushes his fingertips against the stubble of Zayn’s jaw, taking a deep breath.  “What if I freak out again?  Zayn, I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

Zayn turns into the gentle touch.  “Lou. That’s not you. I know you, and I _know_ that’s not you.”

 

“But–”

 

“Louis.” His voice is stern, but not without soft edges.  “I know you’re worried.  You have every right to feel that way, but I trust you.  I trust you with my life, Louis.  I just need you to believe that. Okay?”  Zayn slots their lips together in quick comforting pecks, Louis chases after more with his eyes closed tight. 

 

“We’ll make this work, I promise.”

 

Louis hides in the crook of Zayn’s neck.  “Thank you.  Thank you so much.”

 

And if Louis cries himself to sleep, tears dripping warm on Zayn’s bare skin, Zayn won’t point it out.

 

 

-

 

 

“We’re going to haunt the house.  People come here all the time, but this is _our_ house now.  So to keep people out of it, we’ll scare them away whenever they come.”  Zayn says over a package of poptarts in the parlor the next morning.  They’re sitting on the piano bench, thighs and arms touching.  It feels almost domestic. 

 

“The housh ish awredy haunted doh.”  Louis replies through a mouthful of the artificially coloured pastry.

 

“Yeah, but we don’t have an alliance with the ghosts so that’s not helping us.” Zayn points out while fiddling with the keys that are left on the piano.

 

Louis swallows, “Do _we_ have an alliance?”

 

“We’ve been best friends since birth and I fucked your arse last night, I’d say we’re a bit more than alliances, love.”

 

“Right.” Louis nods, breaking off another corner of the poptart and shoving it in his mouth.  “Sho, howr we gunna haunt da housh.”

 

Zayn narrows his eyes at Louis.  “Quit talking with your mouth full.”  Louis practically chokes, and he and Zayn burst into laugher.  It feels nice.  It feels normal.  Zayn feels like for once the burden of life isn’t weighing down his shoulders.

 

“We’re going to decorate the house so that it looks like the legend.  And some other touches too.”  Zayn laughs, gesturing to the wall where there’s a pentagram tagged on the wall in red spray paint.

 

Louis glances at the wall with a nod.  “Ah, so that’s what you were doing yesterday while I was getting the piss scared out of me in the attic.  Didn’t know you were into summoning demons now.”    


“Pentagrams ward off evil spirits you knob.”

 

Louis just scrunches his face in a huffy manner. “The fuck, Zee.  How am I supposed to know that?”

 

Zayn looks at Louis with soft eyes, trying to contain his absolute fondness. Times like this reminds him of the way they used to be- carefree and playful.  It’s incredible to know that underneath the scar tissue they’re both still Louis and Zayn on the good days.  He leans into Louis and kisses him on the cheek.

 

He startles with the last bite of his poptart en route to his mouth.  “What was that for?”

 

Zayn could say a slew of different reasons and wax poetic about bravery and beauty and love, but he settles for, “Just ‘cos.” 

 

With his hands on his knees he rises from the bench.  “On my last run into town I picked up some stuff to start hauntifying the house. It’s in the foyer, c’mon.”

 

There are a few plastic bags in the hall and Louis rushes over to them excitedly. He pours the contents on the wood floor and sorts through everything and when he’s done he looks up at Zayn with a raised eyebrow.

 

“Hedge clippers, a bucket of red paint and a paintbrush–What are you, Alice tending the Queen’s garden?”

 

Zayn sighs impatiently, “Think of the legend, Louis.”     

 

He has a length of rope in his hand with a dazed look.  “Oh.”  Louis holds the rope out for Zayn to grasp.  “Just– keep that away from me, please.”

 

Zayn tries not to think about the look in Louis’ eyes as he silently looks through the rest of the materials.

 

“I want begonias, Zayn.  Could you buy me a pot of them for the conservatory?”

 

“Sure. I will the next time I go in. Can I ask why?”

 

Louis worries his lips together until he looks up at Zayn with a shrug.  “It means, beware.”

 

  

 

-

 

 

It goes on like that. Time stubbornly moves forward, the way it always does when your world seems to have stopped.  A flexing reality check that there are things in this universe that are stronger than you. 

 

Weeks blend into months, which roll into years and they’re okay.  More than okay, actually, if Zayn dares say it. Their sanctuary built away from the world works in the simplest of ways, but it keeps them safe and sheltered. Some days are undoubtedly harder than others.  Days where they laze together on the floored mattress they found in the attic, watching the shadow of the day dance across the bare wood of the room, and Zayn can feel the dips of Louis’ ribs as his hands soothe his frozen skin.  Sometimes when Zayn hides in the study, curled in on himself with hunger pangs as sharp as daggers, after giving the last slice of stale bread to Louis, he cries because he’s selfish for feeling hunger at all.  

 

The good illuminates the dark though, breathing warmth into the cold spaces of their aching bones, blowing away the cobwebs collected in the corners of their minds. Louis can hold full conversations without slipping into one of his fits.  He recognises Zayn and hasn’t laid a finger on the smooth expanse of his skin in so long, unless it’s with soft eyes and quiet affection. For once in Zayn’s life he feels normal again.  He has a boyfriend who he loves more than the moon that hangs in the sky, and they make ends meet the same way kids their age are supposed to, with ramen noodles and cuddles to replace a heating system, and they daydream post-orgasm of a life where they have a dog, and a picket-fence.  Zayn forgets Louis is even capable of earth shattering violence.

 

Or at least almost forgets.

 

-

 

 

Louis is thumbing through a ten pence book Zayn found a few weeks back on one of his runs into town, hand splayed over his stomach, leaning his back against the wall with peeling maroon wallpaper.  The plot drags, the characterisation is cliché, and the pages are a brittle yellow, but it passes the time and captures his mind enough to keep them at bay. Them, them, them.

 

Louis scoffs out loud when the damsel character, Ruth, descends the staircase to investigate a noise in her kitchen.  “Don’t do it, Ruth.  We both know better than that, Love.” 

 

The laugh is the first thing Louis hears, as loud and shocking as a crack of lightning, reverberating through the empty foyer, almost mocking.  Louis scratches at the back of his neck absently, pushing himself up off of the floor and taking his position in the library; the spot where Zayn makes him scare when he’s gone.  _Drop some books.  Maybe moan a little. No, Louis. Not_ that _kind of moan.  Just– push the door and make it creak a bit. Simple stuff.  You’re not allowed to have the actual fun without me._

Not that Louis has fun scaring without Zayn anyway. 

 

“Niall, shut the fuck up!  Your laugh could raise the dead.”  Someone hisses from the foyer as well.  Louis can hear the sound of footfall on the creaking wood, at least three people. Heavier footsteps, so all guys.

 

“I swear if you feckin’ cunts lock me somewhere in here ‘cos my laugh is loud, I’ll haunt you for the rest of your lives.”  The voice is bright, laden with a thick Irish brogue.  Louis draws a slow finger down the spine of the Encyclopedia Zayn deemed ‘best for scaring’, listening to the lads bicker.

 

“You don’t know what’s in here, Niall.  That’s all I’m saying.”  A more timid voice says, crossing over towards the left side of the first floor.

 

“Between the three of us–”

 

“Don’t touch that!”

 

Louis can practically hear the eye roll of the Irishman. “ _I don’t give a fuck_.”  He concludes, a laugh punctuating the statement.  Louis has had enough and wants to go back to reading his book, so he drops the heavy Encyclopedia on the floor with a bored expression on his face (one of these days it’ll shatter through the floor boards, but thankfully today is not that day).  It always makes scaring a bit sweeter when he’s working with a self-proclaimed macho man who ‘laughs in the face of danger’. Louis hopes he can knock this kid down a few pegs.

 

There’s a scream accompanied by the terrified shuffling of feet.  Louis can practically envision the group huddling together in the dark, moonlight streaming in the tall windows, dust particles dancing in the light, illuminating their quaking figures.

 

“What the bloody _hell_ was that?” Louis smirks when it’s followed by the Irishman’s quiet _ohmygod_.

 

“Go!” Louis groans, dragging the vowel in a bone-chilling manner.  Repeats it for good measure.  He makes his way out of the musty library, door creaking slowly behind him. He walks down the hall, closer to the foyer and dips into the empty room that’s become his and Zayn’s bedroom.

 

“Let’s get out of here.  I’m not dying here, Niall.” The boy sounds close to crying. This is the easiest scare Louis has had in months.  A book, a groan, a door creak; _pussies._

 

“It was a good idea, but–”

 

“I’m not leaving! Fuck you guys.  We came here to get scared, and I’m not leaving without a story to tell.” 

 

“God damn it.” Louis curses under his breath. “Just leave before Zayn comes back. Stubborn knob.”

 

The Irishman’s voice it at the base of the grand staircase now, and floats louder to where Louis stands in the dark of his bedroom, piercing blue eye, spying through the space where the door is left slightly open.

 

“Stay there.” He orders.  “I’m just going to take a look around. I’ll be down in a few.”

 

“Hullo?” Louis doesn’t miss the way words waver in an uncertain echo down the hall.  “Is anyone up here?”

 

_He’s going to hurt you._

 

His own heartbeat picks up, racing as the creaking comes closer and closer.

_He has it.  You know he does._    

 

“Shut up.” Louis grits his teeth, eyes closed so tight his whole body tremors.  “Shut _up_.” He uses the heel of his hand to hit at his temple.  Knock the voices away.  Knock the thoughts from his mind.  It’s not real. Zayn says it’s not real.

 

_Maybe this whole thing is in your head._

_But what if it isn’t?_

_Zayn wouldn’t care if something happened to you anyway. He’d be free._

Pale fingers curl around the dark wood of the door, pushing it open as Louis flails forward breath hitching wildly.  A skinny blonde boy with wide blue eyes walks in with a ducked head and phone flashlight on.  Louis swipes the only thing he can defend himself with off of the drawing table and slinks in the shadows towards the boy who hasn’t yet noticed him.  He makes the move, kicking at the backs of his knees, knocking the Irishman to the ground; a yelp is stifled by Louis’ rough hand.

 

 _He’d be free of you_.   

 

“That’s not true!” Louis sobs, hand clamped over the blonde boy’s mouth, nails digging into his cheek sharply. “That’s not true, not true, not true.” 

 

He fights and twitches in Louis’ grip but can’t break free.  “Talk and I kill you, and your friends downstairs.” Louis growls, forgetting the tears of weakness that still trail down the sharp angles of his face. The blonde nods quickly, hair bobbing in its quiff.

_He’s a threat._

“You’re a threat.” Louis repeats, nodding his head in agreement.  It all makes sense to Louis once explain in the Darwin way. 

 

_Do it._

 

Louis’ hands shake so hard he can barley hold Zayn’s zippo.  He can’t do it.  He won’t hurt this innocent kid who was just looking for a laugh. “I can’t though. Zayn will be so mad.” He whimpers, and the blue eyes of the boy express a mix of fear and confusion. “I can’t do it.”

 

A hooded figure emerges from the dark of the room and picks up the lighter Louis had dropped as he pushed himself away from the figure and the boy.  A muffled _no_ can be heard from the boy’s mouth where it’s covered again. The gear of the lighter being rolled under the figure’s thumb makes the hairs on the back of Louis’ neck stand up. The flame flickers in front of the boy’s cobalt eyes, igniting the pure terror that had only simmered before. It’s dragged down the expanse of pale skin, jaw to neck leaving a track of angry red blisters. Louis’ head swims as he thinks of the burn scars left on his own wrists from the day they escaped; it was some of the worst pain Louis had ever known.  The boy kicks his feet frantically against the floorboards and bites down on the figure’s hand, hard enough to stop the assault.

 

He screams for help, screams to be saved, screams in agony, but the figure grabs the boy by the shock of white-blonde hair, fingers tangled in the soft locks, and slams his head back into the wall with a gut-wrenching crack. Once, twice, three times, until the boy’s head lolls onto his shoulder completely unconscious.

 

The sound reverberates through his skull.  He turns and vomits on the floor.  The last thing he sees before it all fades to black is the figure dragging the boy’s limp body out of the room.

-

 

 

“Zayn?” Louis rasps, blinking awake. The first rays of sun are trickling through the slanted windows in their bedroom.  His boyfriend is hovering over him, dark hair hanging down like a curtain.  Louis’ head turns to the side where the soft skin of Zayn’s hand caresses his cheek. “ ‘Morning, Zayn.”

 

“Louis.” He tries for calm but misses by a mile, landing somewhere amongst stern, worried, and scared.  “How’re you feeling?”

 

Louis hesitates, immediately noticing the off-tone he’s using.  “…Fine?”

 

Zayn leans back to sit on his haunches and scrubs a hand over the stubble that’s collected on his jaw.  Louis weakly pushes himself up to sit with his back leaning against the wall, eyes surveying Zayn, trying to assess what’s happening.

 

“Do you remember last night at all, Lou?”  He asks softly the way he does when he’s trying not to scare Louis, which makes Louis’ heart ram against his chest.

 

“You were gone.” He looks at the floor when he says it, eyebrows drawn together in thought.  “I read in the library until I fell asleep.  I’m glad you’re back though, I was bored.” He tries to smile at Zayn, but Zayn isn’t having it.  Instead he grabs Louis’ hands in his own and brings it up to Louis’ eye line.

 

“Tell me you see it, Louis.”  Zayn says. When Louis tilts his head in question, he continues.  “Tell me you see the blood under your fingernails.”  He pleads desperately.

 

“I–Yes. Yes, I see it… did I try an–and–”  Louis stammers, hand flying to touch at his wrist, “Did I hurt myself again?”

 

His bottom lip is trembling now, because either way, whatever he did had hurt Zayn. He can see it deep in his eyes, swimming in the pools of molten amber.  Zayn pulls Louis’ hands closer to his body and then brings them to his lips. 

 

“No, babe. Not this time. You hurt someone else. You hurt them beyond repair, I think.”

 

Louis’ stomach drops and he’s never so much wished that his hands didn’t belong to him. He draws in a shaky breath, but sobs on the exhale, collapsing into Zayn’s chest.

 

“No more scaring, Louis.  I can’t have this happen again.” He breathes against Louis’ soft hair.  “I’ll protect you, I swear.” 

 

Zayn’s hand rests on the back of Louis’ head, holding him close.  If it were up to Zayn he’d never let go.

 

 

 

-

 

 

Zayn goes into town less and less after that.  He chooses to stock up in one go, rather than trekking there once every few weeks as he’d been previously been doing.  Their makeshift pantry is stocked high with what Louis likes to refer to as ‘apocalypse food’–cans of beans, tuna, and various meats, packages of dried fruit, water bottles, and Poptarts.  It’s not perfect, but there’s nothing else he can do to better the situation.  Zayn’s never bought more than they needed.  Only things like food, thick blankets for the coldest winter nights, and clothes once they grew out of the old ones.  After the incident, he makes sure to splurge on nice, recently written books for Louis as his Birthday/Christmas gift this year.  Louis deserves so much more, Zayn thinks.

 

Louis is curled up on a fainting couch in the library, his small hands clutching the book like it’s the only thing he has in the world; which is as true as it is sad. He watches him from the doorway with a sinking feeling in his stomach.  The moonlight comes through the floor to ceiling windows, pooling around Louis in an ethereal way.  He almost looks like a ghost himself.  The boy inside Louis died the day of the fire.  He’s doomed to haunt this earth just like any other lost soul.  Zayn wishes he could force feed Louis rays of sunshine; take him to the cinema, or a pub with an actual fireplace.  He wants to take him out of the shadows they hide in; ease the tension in his shoulders and drawn eyebrows. 

 

“Are you happy?” His voice shocks even himself.

 

Louis’ head jolts up to look at Zayn, his fringe tousled across his forehead.  He slowly lowers his book to rest on his chest as Zayn walks over to the couch, elbowing Louis gently to make him budge over. Louis wraps a hand around his wrist defensively, eyes down.

 

“Lou?” Zayn coaxes with a calming hand against the plain of Louis’ back.

 

He clears his throat and leans into Zayn.  “I’m with you, aren’t I?”

 

Said like that, everything sounds so simple.  But it’s not.  They haven’t been simple since that sweltering summer day.  Zayn would have to be an utter idiot to believe Louis’ happiness relied on him. 

 

“You know that’s not how this works.”

 

Louis fixes Zayn with an intense stare.  “Yes it is.”  He says, curling into Zayn’s side, looking up with wide, serious eyes.

 

“It works like that because without you I go cold.  I don’t care how stupid, or–or _desperate_ that sounds, because I can feel it.  Nothing makes sense and I itch under my skin.  Without you…”  Louis’ voice cracks.  “I don’t know what I’d be.  Happy isn’t one of the words I think of.”  He hesitates.  “Alive isn’t one of them either.”

 

“You make me feel like I’m not my problems.  I’m Louis with you, and that makes me happy.  _You_ make me happy, Zayn. As long as you’re the first person I see when I wake up, and the last when I go to sleep, I’ll never be happier.  I’ll never be– you know, perfect– or anything… but I try so hard to be okay for you, to make _you_ as happy as you make me.”

 

Zayn clutches Louis to his chest.  The air around them almost seems warm with Louis’ confession hanging in the air. He never talks like this. Never lays himself bare in a way that makes him more vulnerable than he normally is.

 

“You remember what I told you that night?”  Zayn asks.

 

Louis whimpers and Zayn feels the wetness of Louis’ cheeks seeping into the fabric of his shirt. “You asked me to stay.”

 

“I honestly don’t know how I would live without you.”  He finishes, pressing his lips to Louis’ hair.  “Thank you.”  He sobs.  “Thank you for staying.”

 

That night, intruders come to the house but Zayn stays true to his word, not even lifting a finger to scare them away.  He curls up with Louis on their bed, whispering calming words about everything and nothing, until suddenly, the house is so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and they’re on their own again.

 

 

-

 

 

Zayn has no other choice but to go out on an emergency run that morning.  He’d been putting it off for so long in fear of leaving Louis alone that they’d run out of food almost a week ago.  He’d been able to ignore the sharp pangs, but the feel of Louis’ bones under his fingertips every night shook him to the core, pushing him to make the decision.  In the end, it was all for Louis.

Runs normally take Zayn a full day, so when he leaves at six a.m. he all but jogs to the closest Waitrose to get back to Louis sooner.  He’s exhausted and shaking by the time he reaches the land that leads to the mansion. The bags weigh down his arms, and his legs are weak with exertion.  The sky is a deep curtain of navy blue, splattered with stars and Zayn knows it’s late at night, maybe even early morning.  He pushes himself on, looking forward to finally eating with Louis and curling up against him in their bed.

His whole body goes cold when he sees the car parked in the muddy lawn of their house.  Louis was bad when Zayn left him in the morning, the hunger making him dizzy and more antsy than usual.  Zayn knew he was at a higher risk of having a breakdown, but he’d left anyway.  He has the sinking feeling in his gut that Louis didn’t hide when those people went into the house, and as he drops the bags on the ground and runs, he prays that he can get to Louis before the others do.

The double doors bang open when Zayn shoves through the front entrance.  He can hear sobbing from upstairs, and immediately knows it’s Louis.

“Louis! _Louis_ , where the fuck are you?”  He shouts.  His heart is in his throat.

 

“ZAYN.” Louis, yells back.  “Help me, please.”  He begs loudly, his voice cracking.  Zayn grabs the emergency flashlight they keep on the window ledge in the foyer and bolts up the staircase following the sound of Louis’ voice. 

 

Zayn rounds the corner at a sprint, skidding to a halt when he finds a wide-eyed, curly haired lad holding an unconscious boy in his arms.  His breath hitches when the beam of his flashlight catches on a pool of blood that’s seeping into the floor.  Zayn continues scanning the hall until his gaze lands on the bloodied baseball bat at Louis’s feet.  Louis is cowered up against the wall across from the library; his blue eyes are practically blazing in the light of the flashlight, the horror that’s trapped in mind seeping into his face.

 

He turns his body slowly to Louis, his blood thrumming with terrified anticipation. “Louis,” He coaxes gently, this is _his_ Louis, but Zayn knows that anything can set him off again; send him reeling back to the voices that are louder than Zayn can speak himself. “What the fuck have you done?” He asks.

“They told me to do it.”  Louis squeaks, grasping at Zayn’s arm like it’s a life raft.  His eyes are pleading with Zayn to forgive him.  “I’m so sorry, Zayn, oh god.”

Zayn turns to look at the curly haired boy whose eyes are red rimmed.  He can’t believe he’s let this happen a second time.  It was supposed to end after the blonde Irish boy he’d found unconscious months ago.  Louis was supposed to stick to the plan, and stay in the room and be quiet. He was supposed to make sure Louis felt safe so he wouldn’t be plunged into his mind in the first place. This is his fault.

He takes a deep breath before speaking. “I’m sorry for what happened to your friend.”  Zayn says.  “You shouldn’t have come here, but I will help you.”

The curly haired boy lets out a ragged breath and tugs his friend closer to his chest in a protective manner.  “Thank you.”

Zayn wets his lips with a dart of his tongue.  “On one condition.”  

“You’re going to help us get out of here.” Zayn orders calmly. “And before you _sass_ me, Curly, it’s the only way your friend will get the help he needs.  I promise.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to thank sanya (stitchedwrists) and jessenia (jesseniall) for helping me and cheering me on through writing this part. it's really draining sometimes and they've been great
> 
> tumblr: hailsatanstyles


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry for how long this took. A special thank you to Jessenia (croptopsforeveryone), Sanya (thebarbershopquartet), and finally Amy (clintb4rton) for being the person to literally @ me and call me out for being an asshole and never finishing this. 
> 
> There's an assortment of other people who have been endlessly supportive of me, and if you think you are one of those people, then from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

“You’re going to help us get out of here.” Zayn orders calmly. Harry opens his mouth to protest but Zayn cuts him off, “And before you _sass_ me, Curly, it’s the only way your friend will get the help he needs.”

 

Harry’s mouth shuts at that and he nods silently, running his handover Liam’s scalp as he whimpers in pain.  It’s a low drone of semi-consciousness and leaves a sick pooling feeling in Harry’s gut.   There’s no word Harry can think of to describe the feeling of being completely played into the hands of the absolute strangers standing before him.  For all he knows they could be escaped convicts or serial killers.  But as long as Liam’s eyes continue fluttering shut they way they are, Harry will do anything to keep him alive.

 

Liam struggles to sit up.  Harry coos at him, trying to keep him down but Liam shoves his hands away.  He props himself up on his elbow and fixes Louis and Zayn with a burning glare. “You hurt Niall.”

 

The blue-eyed boy almost jumps out of his skin at the comment.  “Tell him to shut up, Zayn.  He’s talking utter shit!”  His eyes are wild and his fingers are grasping at Zayn’s arms.  Zayn just stares ahead, as if Louis were a ghost.

 

Harry cuts a glare to Liam, “You don’t know what you’re saying, mate.”  He says through gritted teeth.   The last thing he needs is Liam to act brave and get the two of them killed in defense of their classmate.  Whether Liam’s onto something or not, he still says,  “Your head’s all jumbled, just relax. I’m going to get you out of here.”

 

“Take him downstairs.”  Zayn nods at Liam.  “I’m giving you ten minutes to bring the car up the manor green. And don’t bring it too close.”

 

With that, Zayn stalks down the hall into the darkness, Louis scrambling after him like a wounded animal.

 

 

-

 

Louis is standing by their bed, scrubbing the palms of his hands against the material of his jeans.  He’s watching Zayn with watery eyes as he kneels on the floor, roughly shoving the little belongings they’ve acquired over the years into a rucksack.  He bites his lip and wonders if he can even speak.  He tries anyway.

 

“Could you please pack my books, Zayn?” His voice trembles and gives him away, but when Zayn reaches for his small stack of books and puts it in a spare plastic bag, he’s happy he bothered to ask.  Louis doesn’t have much outside of Zayn and his books. Zayn gets up and shoves the bag into Louis’ chest.  He flinches and grasps the stacked form of the books tightly to his body.

 

“Please don’t be cross with me.”  Louis breathes.

 

He just huffs in response, continuing to roll up sweaters and finally, tucks his manuscript into the rucksack.  Louis wishes he could go back to that morning and do it all over, just so that they could stay here– together and happy. He would have never left the bedroom, he would have done the exercises that Zayn practises with him to help control the voices, he would have _stayed away_.

 

“Zayn, what are you doing with that?” Louis’ voice quakes gently as he eyes the red jugs Zayn’s hefting towards the doorway.

 

Zayn doesn’t even react.  He can’t stand to see the look that in undoubtedly settled in Louis’ blue eyes. He puts the jugs down at the entry way and jumps when he feels fingers wrap around his wrist.

 

“Please, Zayn.”  Louis begs.  “What are you going to do with that?”

 

“I know–I know I messed up, and I’m so sorry. You know how I get. But please don’t do this.” He runs a hand through his hair and tugs lightly at the ends, face contorted in distress.   “What are you even _doing_? Why won’t you talk to me?!  Whatever you’re doing with that, _please_ just leave me out of it.”

 

“Louis,” He begins as he pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, “I hoped it would never come down to this.  I was wrong.”

 

Louis’ eyes survey Zayn’s face quickly before he takes staggering steps away from him.  “Zayn, no.  No, no, no. You can’t do this to me.”

 

“I’m trying to help you, love.”

 

Louis can feel the petrol fumes weaving it’s way around his neck like a noose, taking away his breath. “Don’t ‘ _love_ ’ me.  You know I’m afraid. You’ll take my biggest fear and use it against me? I said I was _sorry_!  I didn’t mean for him to get hurt.  You know I would never do it on purpose, Zayn.  Please!”

 

“Louis–”

 

“You’re a fucking monster.”  Louis spits between harsh sobs.

 

Zayn closes the space between them and wraps his hands around Louis’ biceps, thumb rubbing circles into the soft cotton of his jumper.

 

“It’s for your own good.  You’ve been a victim your whole life, love. It’s high time you gathered your strength, and overcame it.”   

 

 

-

 

 

The quietness of daybreak is broken by the howling wind of a coming storm.  Louis is humbled, standing in front of the vastness of Harrington Manor. Just a miniscule being swallowed whole by the looming shadow.  His hair is whipping around his head in a frenzied halo, while Zayn stands stoically a few paces away. Louis rubs at the skin of his wrist furiously over the almost ancient scars.  The petrol containers are at his feet, poised for action.

 

“Don’t make me do this.”  He turns to Zayn, pleading.

 

 _He’ll leave you here for dead._ Louis squeezes his eyes shut at the harsh voice, murmuring under his breath for them to stop.

_The police will come for you and he’ll already be long gone, onto his new life. And you won’t be going back to the orphanage; this time you’ll be going somewhere much worse._

 

But through all of the voices swirling in his mind, he hears one clear as a bell rise above, saying– _Zayn would never hurt you.  He’s only trying to help you. Let him help, love._

 

He feels the warm touch of Zayn’s hand against his own, the other coming to cup the back of his head in his palm. “Lou,” he murmurs, “they’re not real.  I’m real. And I love you.”

 

“Open your eyes, darling.”  His voice wraps him up and cradles him the way his mum’s used to.  “We’ll do this together.  It’ll be okay.”

 

Zayn pours the petrol through the doorway, trails it over the brittle wood of the porch, all the way to the edge of the grass. He hands Louis the zippo, small and seemingly harmless in his clammy palm. 

 

“Light the grass and the rest will catch.” Zayn says calmly.

 

Louis moves forward slowly, his mind quiet for once. He could feel Zayn staying close behind him.  Always behind him, ready for the inevitable downfall.  But this time it felt different.  It felt like the end of a journey.  It felt like rising from the proverbial ashes.

 

He rolls the igniter and the first flame licks and catches, in the pale morning light.  He takes a few steps back, and holds his breath.

 

Harry is in the idling car, screaming out the open window, “Fucking hell, what are you two doing?! Get in the fucking car! We’ll go to jail forever for this!”

 

The flames that are whipped higher and higher by the wind, engulfing the aged façade of the home, illuminate their faces. Louis’ cheeks are turning ruddy with the heat; he can hardly understand Zayn as he shouts over the roar of the fire, yanking his arm to get him to budge. It’s as if the flames possess hypnotic power, lulling him into a sense of security.  He’s pulled again, with more force than before, and stumbles backward into Zayn’s arms.

 

“We have to go _now_.” He says gruffly, but his eyes are alight, drunk with the prospect of freedom.

 

They dash wildly to the car, slamming doors, Harry curses furiously and peels away down the rocky path towards the main road.

 

Zayn and Louis silently peer out the back window of the car, watching their home crumble and burn.  They were the final ghosts to haunt the halls of Harrington Manor, fleeing into the night like bats with scorched wings.

 

-

 

Sarah Watts’ small home echoed and creaked the nights her husband worked into the wee morning hours.  She would curl into the corner of the couch and thumb through the pages of the _New York Times’_ newest bestseller until her eyes drooped shut on their own accord. Sometimes she burned sandalwood incense and got lost in the way the smoke unfurled in the air while listening to her favourite _Spa Relaxation_ Pandora station.  Tonight, she’s indulging in her nighttime rituals with a light buzzing underneath her skin. It started early that evening, as she watched the Harrington Estate burn to the ground on the local news channel.  The anchor read that foul play was suspected, but everyone knew that there’d hardly be an investigation.  The estate was more trouble than it was worth.  Historical?  Yes, but a bloody deathtrap.

 

Her grip on the remote slackens; sleep threatening to overtake her until there’s a heavy knock on the door.  She jumps, startled, but crosses the living room towards the front hall.  Opening the door, she gasps with a hand to her chest when she’s met with a face she was sure she’d never see again.       

 

“Zayn! My pet, what a surprise!” She clutches him close to her chest, choosing to ignore the smell of smoke and gasoline rolling off of his clothing.  Louis is in his shadow, looking worn, but happy.  “And my sweet, Louis. Come!” She gestures for him to step forward to receive a hug as well.

 

She ushers them inside from the cold, “What brings you to my doorstep?”

 

“Hopefully a place to sleep for a night?” Louis offers sheepishly. “Maybe even a bath?”

 

“Of course, darlings.  I’ll set up the guest room for you!”  She kisses each of their cheeks.  “What a surprise! So glad to see your faces!” She bustles out of the room.

 

Louis latches onto Zayn then, breathing for the first time in years, even though it smells like fire.

 

- 

 

Zayn’s sat at the kitchen table, looking out at the rain pattering down the window panes, droplets chasing each other in a cyclic race.  His manuscript is in front of him, open to what he had thought would be the final page. He’d woken in the middle of the night, realising the proper ending hadn’t been written yet because it hadn’t happened.

 

“You can stay, Zayn.”  Mrs. Watt’s is standing in the doorway, in her fuzzy purple dressing robe.  Her hair is mussed and her voice is still exuding that sleep worn tone.  She shuffles across the wood floor and takes the seat next to Zayn’s.

 

“Louis will stay here too, don’t you worry. Peter and I will take care of you both. We’ve discussed it.” She cups his cheek and brushes her thumb against his cheekbone.  “You need a hand to guide you, that’s all. I want to be that hand if you two will let me.”

 

“You’re going to finish your book, and we’ll get Louis _proper_ care.  He’ll be right as rain, I promise.”

 

“But it’s so much. _Too much_ to ask.  I already owe you Louis’ life.  I can’t ask more of you.”  Zayn interjects, the debt weighing heavy on his chest. 

 

“Everyone deserves happiness.  And I’ve never met a pair that deserves it more than you two.”  She replies, her hand warm over Zayn’s, face soft and kind, the way his mum’s used to look so long ago.

 

 

-

 

 

_Nine Months Later_

Liam bounds down the steps of the building towards a patiently waiting Harry who’s leaning against a lamppost. He clasps his hand in Harry’s outreached one and swings them back and forth.  Harry ducks to peck him on the lips, “How’d it go today, babe?”

 

“Surprisingly great… She said she’s glad to hear I can sleep through the night now. And the medication seems to be really helping with the anxiety.”

 

They make their way down the busy pavement, hand in hand, “No, good sex is the cure for anxiety.”  Harry states matter-of-factly.

 

“You’re a right moron you know that?” Liam playfully bumps shoulders with him and Harry gives a cheeky grin in return.

 

“But I’m your moron and you love me. So, I figured I’d make enchiladas for dinner and then we could finally sit down and make a list of the things we’ll need to buy for the flat next month?”

 

“Should I call Niall and invite him over as well?”

 

“No romantic night in for us, then?” He frowns, only half perturbed.  “I can’t cook in my pants if Niall is over.  He’s already made his stance on my free spiritedness known.”

 

“You get to cook half naked every other night! I miss the bastard. And the flat is just as much his, as it is ours.  It’s not some kind of lovers nest, Haz, it’s a Uni flat. You’ve got to get used to booze, women, late nights, and questionable substances.”

 

“My wild days are far behind me.  Everyone knows you’ve tamed me, Li.”

 

They’re walking past the park, the sound of children riding scooters with their mum’s walking beside them, excited shouts of them enjoying the summer heat on the playground.  Liam has a relaxed smile on his face, “Can’t say I’m one to complain about the domesticated Styles, honestly.”

 

On the football pitch there’s a sandy haired lad dibbling the ball off of his knee, kit streaked with grass stains. Harry’s hearing dips out and whatever Liam is saying turns into unintelligible molasses.  The footballer bops the ball off his knee once more and kicks it in the direction of his brooding friend who’s sitting on a blanket smoking a cigarette, nearly taking off his head.  Letting out a howl of laughter, he takes off into a sprint and pins the raven-haired admirer to the blanket.  Cigarette forgotten, they kiss, slow and loving, and Harry can’t seem to direct his gaze anywhere but the scene.  The footballer pulls away with a cheeky grin. They exchange a few words, and with a pat on the bum, he’s waved away.  He takes off down the pitch at a sprint, kicking the ball until he takes a shot on the net and scores.  His arms up in the air with victory, it’s mirrored down the field where the raven-haired lad lets out an excited whoop.

 

“–We provide the food, you provide the beer. Yes.  No, _you_ owe me a soda.  It’s not my prerogative to say jinx, because you know I always say _you need to bring the beer_.  Jinx doesn’t apply to that.  Yeah, we’ll see about that.”  Liam lets out a cackle and Harry’s fully snapped out of his reverie.  “See you later, Nialler.  Bye.”

 

Liam tucks his phone into his pocket and fixes Harry with a look. “What _are_ you gawking at?”

 

He tries to see around Harry, but he purposely stands just in the line of view.  “Nothing really… I was just thinking.”  Harry shuffles his feet.  “I’m proud of you, Liam.  And I’m happy that someone as brave and smart and kind as you, loves someone like me.”

 

Liam quirks a brow, “As sentimental and wonderful as that sounds Harry, are you sure you weren’t just checking out that footballer’s arse?”

 

“Hey,” Harry drags the word for ages, “I try and be a loving, caring boyfriend and you whittle me down to a horny dog.”

 

He’s fixed with a deadly stare.

 

“Okay, okay. _Maybe_ I was looking at his arse.  But that doesn’t make the words I said any less true.”

 

“You’re truly the cheekiest bastard I know, Mister Styles.”  He kisses him slowly with a hand pressed to Harry’s cheek. He pulls away and gives a dopey grin. Liam tugs on his hand lightly. “Let’s go to Waitrose, Niall will be over soon.  Gotta get those enchiladas cooking!”

 

They begin walking again, crossing the street towards the market. Harry chances one last glance behind him.  The sandy-haired lad is standing on the edge of the pitch, closer now than ever before. He gives a friendly wave, eyes clear and happy, crinkled at the corners from smile.

 

Harry waves back.

 

 

-

 

 

_The Haunting of Harrington Hill_

by Zayn Malik

 

 

 

**Publisher’s Note**

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has truly been a ride, and I hope I've provided a satisfying ending for a story that has been with me through a very formative time in my life.
> 
> all my love,  
> lauren
> 
> -
> 
> be sure to like, comment, share
> 
> tumblr: hailsatanstyles


End file.
